THE  WORKERS 


THE   SENSE   OF   INFINITY   IS   HEIGHTENED   BY   THE   FLOATING  MIST. 


THE  WORKERS 

AN 

EXPERIMENT  IN  REALITY 


BY 


WALTEE    A.  \7YCKOFF 

ASSISTANT  PROFESSOR  OF  POLITICAL  ECONOMY  IN 
PRINCETON   UNIVERSITY 


THE   WEST 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1898 


COPYRIGHT,  1898,  BT 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

MINTINd  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

FA8I 

THE  ARMY  OP  THE  UNEMPLOYED,      ...      1 

CHAPTER  II 
LIVING  BY  ODD  JOBS, 40 

CHAPTER  III 
FINDING  STEADY  WORK, 86 

CHAPTER  IV 
A  HAND-TRUCKMAN  IN  A  FACTORY,    .       .       .  147 

CHAPTER  V 
AMONG  THE  REVOLUTIONARIES,  ....  190 

CHAPTER  VI 

A   ROAD    BUILDER    ON    THE   WORLD'S    FAIR 

GROUNDS, 247 

CHAPTER  VII 
FROM  CHICAGO  TO  DENVER,       ....  288 

CHAPTER  VIII  , 

FROM  DENVER  TO  THE  PACIFIC,         .        .        .  338 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  SENSE  OP  INFINITY  is  HEIGHTENED  BY 
THE  FLOATING  MIST, Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"THAT  MEETING  is  NOT  FAR,"  HE  is  SAYING, 
"AND  IT'S  WARM  THERE.  WON'T  You  Go?"  16 

IN  THE  CORNER  NEAR  Us  ARE  THREE  MEN, 
SLOUCHING,  LISTLESS,  WEARY  SPECIMENS  OF 
THEIR  KIND,  WHO  ARE  PLAYING  "COM- 
RADES,"   24 

SHE  is  FACING  Us  NEAR  AT  HAND,  HER  HEAD 
FRAMED  IN  THE  DARK  UMBRELLA  WHICH 
RESTS  UPON  HER  SHOULDER, 30 

OVERFLOWING  THROUGH  THE  OPEN  DOOR  OF 
THE  FARTHEST  PASSAGE  UPON  THE  FLOOR 
OF  THE  MAIN  CORRIDOR  ARE  THE  SPRAWL- 
ING FIGURES  OF  MEN  ASLEEP, 36 

THE  POLICE-STATION  BREAKFAST, 42 

"OUT  You  Go,  Now," 50 

" WE'LL  FEED,  PARTNER,  WE'LL  FEED,"   .    .    54 

ALL  OF  THEM  WERE  SHOUTING  OATHS  AND 
VIOLENT  ABUSE, 60 

SHE  DREW  BACK  AND  LOOKED  AT  ME  PER- 
PLEXED,   66 

vii 


Vlll  LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

JACTNO 
PAGB 

HE  WAS  PUTTING  THE  MEN  THROUGH  A  CATE- 
CHISM RESPECTING  THEIR  NATIONALITIES, 

THEIR  HOMES  AND  OCCUPATIONS,  AND  THEIR 
MOTIVES  IN  COMING  TO  CHICAGO 88 

I  THINK  THAT  THE  COOK  THOROUGHLY  EN- 
JOYED FEEDING  Us, 94 

Is  THE  MIDST  OP  THE  APPLAUSE  WHICH 
MARKED  THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RESOLUTION, 
SHE  WAS  ON  HER  FEET 106 

"DON'T  You  TOUCH  IT,"  SHE  SAID,  FIERCELY,  114 

"  WE'VE  GOT  SOME  GRUB,  MA  !  "  CRIED  THE 
OLDER  CHILD,  IN  A  TONE  OF  SUCCESS,  AS 
SHE  RAN  UP  TO  HER  MOTHER  WITH  THE 
BASKET.  "RILEY'S  BARREL  WAS  FULL  TO- 
NIGHT,"   118 

WAITING  FOR  A  JOB  OUTSIDE  THE  FACTORY 
GATES,  130 

I  WAS  STRONG  AND  WARM  IN  THE  WILD  JOY 
OF  THE  LUST  FOR  BLOOD, 136 

LOADING  THE  BOX-CARS  UNDER  GRIST'S  GUID- 
ANCE,   150 

IN  THE  FACTORY, 154 

CROWDS  OF  MEN  STREAMING  FROM  EVERY 
DOOR  AND  PRESSING  SWIFTLY  THROUGH 
THE  GATE 160 

THE  NOON  HOUR, 164 

MRS.  SCHULZ'S  BOARDING-HOUSE, 168 

NEVER  ONCE  DID  I  FAIL  OF  A  FRIENDLY 
GREETING 196 


LIST   OP  ILLUSTRATIONS  ix 

PAC1NQ 
PACK 

HE  HATED  KINGS  AND  POTENTATES  AND  ALL 
GOVERNMENTAL  AUTHORITY, 214 

THE  SOCIALIST  MEETING, 222 

THERE  WAS  NOTHING  IN  THE  DOMESTIC  SCENE 
WHICH  MET  Us  TO  SUGGEST  THE  HOME  OP 
A  REVOLUTIONARY, 232 

AN  EVASION  OF  THE  FACTORY  SYSTEM  OF 
PRODUCTION, 236 

RETURNING  WORK  FROM  SWEAT  SHOPS,   .    .    .  240 

"DON'T  TALK  TO  Us  ABOUT  DISEASE;  IT'S 
BREAD  WE'RE  AFTER,  BREAD  i" 246 

IT  WAS  A  WELL-FED  CROWD  WHICH  SAT  SMOK- 
ING FOR  A  QUARTER  OF  AN  HOUR  OR  MORE 
ON  THE  ROUGH  EMBANKMENTS,  OVERLOOK- 
ING THE  AGRICULTURAL  BUILDING  BEFORE 
GOING  BACK  TO  WORK 256 

THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY—"  Two  TOWNSHIPS  WERE 
TO  PLAY  EACH  OTHER," 318 

PRICE  COULD  SPEAK  THEIR  LANGUAGE,  AND 
Now  AND  THEN  ONE  JOINED  Us  IN  CAMP,  370 


THE  WORKERS 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  ABMY  OF  THE  UNEMPLOYED 

BOOMS  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN'S  CHRISTIAN 

•    ASSOCIATION,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 
Saturday  Evening,  December  5,  1891. 

A  NEW  phase  of  my  experiment  is  begun. 
Hitherto  I  have  been  in  the  open  country,  and 
have  found  work  with  surprising  readiness. 
Now  I  am  in  the  heart  of  a  congested  labor  mar- 
ket, and  I  am  learning,  by  experience,  what  it  is 
to  look  for  work  and  fail  to  find  it;  to  renew 
the  search  under  the  spur  of  hunger  and  cold, 
and  of  the  animal  instinct  of  self-preservation, 
until  any  employment,  no  matter  how  low  in 
the  scale  of  work,  that  would  yield  food  and 
shelter,  appears  to  you  the  very  Kingdom  of 
Heaven ;  and  if  it  could  suffer  violence,  it  would 
seem  as  though  the  strength  of  your  desire  must 
take  that  kingdom  by  force.  But  it  remains  im- 
pregnable to  your  attack,  and,  baffled  and  weak- 
1 


2  THE   WORKERS 

ened,  you  are  thrust  back  upon  yourself  and  held 
down  remorselessly  to  the  cold,  naked  fact  that 
you,  who  in  all  the  universe  are  of  supremest  im- 
portance to  yourself,  are  yet  of  no  importance  to 
the  universe.  You  are  a  superfluous  human 
being.  For  you  there  is  no  part  in  the  play  of 
the  world's  activity.  There  remains  for  you  sim- 
ply this  alternative  :  Have  you  the  physical  and 
moral  qualities  which  fit  you  to  survive,  and 
which  will  place  you  at  last  within  the  working 
of  the  large  scheme  of  things,  or,  lacking  these 
qualities,  does  there  await  you  inevitable  wreck 
under  the  onward  rush  of  the  world's  great  mov- 
ing life  ? 

That,  at  all  events,  is  pretty  much  as  it  ap- 
pears to-night  to  Tom  Clark  and  me.  Clark  is 
my  "  partner,"  and  we  are  not  in  good  luck  nor 
in  high  spirits.  We  each  had  a  ten-cent  breakfast 
this  morning,  but  neither  has  tasted  food  since, 
and  to-night,  after  an  exhausting  search  for 
work,  we  must  sleep  in  the  station-house. 

"We  are  doing  our  best  to  pass  the  time  in 
warmth  and  comfort  until  midnight.  We  know 
better  than  to  go  to  the  station-house  earlier  than 
that  hour.  Clark  is  in  the  corner  at  my  side 
pretending  to  read  a  newspaper,  but  really  trying 
to  disguise  the  fact  that  he  is  asleep. 

An  official  who  walks  periodically  through  the 


THE   ARMY   OF   THE  UNEMPLOYED  3 

reading-room,  recalling  nodding  figures  to  their 
senses,  has  twice  caught  Clark  asleep,  and  has 
threatened  to  put  him  out. 

I  shall  be  on  the  alert,  and  shall  warn  Clark 
of  his  next  approach,  for  after  this  place  is  closed 
we  shall  have  long  enough  to  wait  in  the  naked 
street  before  we  can  be  sure  of  places  in  the  larger 
corridor  of  the  station,  where  the  crowding  is  less 
close  and  the  air  a  degree  less  foul  than  in  the 
inner  passage,  where  men  are  tightly  packed 
over  every  square  foot  of  the  paved  floor. 

We  are  tired  and  very  hungry,  and  not  a  little 
discouraged;  we  should  be  almost  desperate  but 
for  one  redeeming  fact.  The  silver  lining  of  our 
cloud  has  appeared  to-night  in  the  form  of  fall- 
ing snow.  From  the  murky  clouds  which  all 
day  have  hung  threateningly  over  the  city,  a 
quiet,  steady  snow-fall  has  begun,  and  we  shall 
be  singularly  unfortunate  in  the  morning  if  we 
can  find  no  pavements  to  clean. 

In  the  growing  threat  of  snow  we  have  en- 
couraged each  other  with  the  brightening  pros- 
pect of  a  little  work,  and  for  quite  half  an  hour 
after  nightfall  we  stood  alternately  before  the 
windows  of  two  cheap  restaurants  in  Madison 
Street,  studying  the  square  placards  in  the  win- 
dows on  which  the  bills  of  fare  are  printed,  and 
telling  each  other,  with  nice  discriminations  be- 


4  THE  WORKERS 

twcen  bulk  and  strengthening  power  of  food, 
what  we  shall  choose  to-morrow. 

It  is  a  little  strange,  when  I  think  of  it,  the 
closeness  of  the  intimacy  between  Clark  and  me. 
"We  never  saw  each  other  until  last  Wednesday 
evening,  and  we  know  little  of  each  other's  past. 
But  I  feel  as  though  the  ties  that  bound  me  to 
him  had  their  roots  far  back  in  our  histories. 
Perhaps  men  come  to  know  one  another  quickest 
and  best  on  a  plane  of  life,  where  in  the  fellow- 
ship of  destitution  they  struggle  for  the  primal 
needs  and  feel  the  keen  sympathies  which  attest 
the  basal  kinship  of  our  common  humanity. 
Ours  are  not  intellectual  affinities — at  least  they 
are  not  consciously  these — but  we  feel  shrewdly 
the  community  of  hunger  and  cold  and  isolation, 
and  we  have  drawn  strangely  near  to  each  other 
in  this  baffling  struggle  for  a  social  footing,  and 
have  tempered  in  our  comradeship  the  biting  cold 
of  the  loneliness  that  haunts  us  on  the  outskirts 
of  a  crowded  working  world. 

Early  on  last  Wednesday  morning,  in  the  gray 
light  of  a  cloudy  day,  I  began  the  last  stage  of 
the  march  to  Chicago.  A  walk  of  something 
less  than  thirty  miles  would  take  me  to  the  heart 
of  the  city. 

There  is  an  unfailing  inspiration  in  these  early 


THE   ARMY   OF  THE   UNEMPLOYED  5 

renewals  of  the  journey.  Solid  food  and  a  night 
of  unfathomable  sleep  have  restored  the  waste  of 
tissue.  I  set  out  in  the  morning  with  a  sense  of 
boundless  freedom,  with  an  opening  day  and  the 
whole  wide  world  before  me,  with  my  heart  leap- 
ing in  the  joy  of  living  and  in  high  expectancy 
of  what  the  day  may  hold  of  experience  and  of 
insight  into  the  lives  of  my  fellow-men. 

On  this  particular  morning  there  is  added  ful- 
ness and  freshness  in  that  inbreathing  which 
gives  the  zest  of  life.  Long  had  Chicago  loomed 
large  to  my  imagination,  and  now  it  stood  before 
me,  its  volumes  of  black  smoke  mingling  with 
the  leaden  sky  in  the  northern  horizon. 

How  much  it  had  come  to  mean  to  me,  this 
huge  metropolis  of  the  shifting  centre  of  our 
population !  The  unemployed  were  there,  and  I 
had  not  seen  them  yet;  hundreds  lived  there 
who  are  fiercely  at  war  with  the  existing  state 
of  things,  and  their  speech  was  an  unknown 
tongue  to  me,  and  my  conventional  imagination 
could  not  compass  the  meaning  of  their  imag- 
ings;  and  then  the  poor  were  there,  the  really 
destitute,  who  always  feel  first  and  last  of  all 
the  pressure  upon  the  limits  of  subsistence,  and 
who  in  the  grim  clutch  of  starvation  underbid 
one  another  for  the  work  of  the  sweaters,  until 
the  brain  reels  at  the  knowledge  of  the  incredible 


6  THE   WORKERS 

toil  by  which  body  and  soul  are  kept  together. 
""All  this  awaited  me,  the  very  core  of  the  social 
problem  whose  conditions  I  had  set  out  to  learn 
in  the  terms  of  concrete  experience. 

Nor  was  I  insensible  to  the  charm  of  other 
novelties.  I  have  been  pressing  westward 
through  a  land  unknown  to  me.  Gradually  I 
am  beginning  to  see  the  essential  provinciality 
of  a  mind  which  knows  the  Eastern  seaboard,  and 
has  some  measure  of  acquaintance  with  countries 
and  cities  and  with  men  from  Ireland  to  Italy, 
but  which  is  densely  ignorant  of  our  own  vast 
domain,  and  shrinks  from  all  that  lies  beyond 
Philadelphia  as  belonging  to  "  the  West,"  which 
sums  up  the  totality  of  a  frontier,  where  man  and 
nature  share  a  sympathetic  wildness,  and  some- 
times vie  in  outbursts  of  lawless  force.  I  have 
not  yet  reached  "  the  "West "  in  any  essential 
departure  from  the  social  and  industrial  struct- 
ure of  the  East.  And  from  the  new  point  of 
view,  "  the  West  "  recedes  ever  farther  from  my 
sight,  until  impatient  desire  sometimes  spurs  me 
to  a  quicker  journey,  in  the  fear  that  the  real 
West  may  have  faded  from  our  map  before  I 
reach  it,  and  I  may  miss  the  delight  of  vital  con- 
tact with  the  untamed  frontier. 

Moreover,  I  could  but  feel  a  student's  kind- 
ling interest  in  the  larger  vision  of  this  great 


THE  AEMY   OF   THE   UNEMPLOYED  7 

centre  of  industrial  life. — Its  renaissance  with, 
augmented  vigor  from  the  ashes  of  its  earlier  his- 
tory.— The  swelling  tide  of  its  swarming  people 
until  the  fifteen  hundred  thousand  mark  is 
reached  and  passed,  and  the  mounting  waves  of 
population  roll  in,  each  with  the  strength  of  an 
army  of  fighting  men. — The  vastness  of  its  pro- 
ductive enterprises,  where  all  the  shrewd  econ- 
omies of  modern  commerce  reveal  themselves,  and 
where  skill  and  organizing  power  and  the  genius 
of  initiative  win  their  quick  recognition  and  re- 
wards, and  men  of  parts  pass  swiftly  from  the 
lowest  to  the  highest  places  in  the  scale  of  pro- 
ductive usefulness  and  power. — And  then  the 
splendid  vigor  of  its  nobler  living,  its  churches 
and  public  schools  and  libraries  and  wise  phi- 
lanthropies, and  its  impatient  hunger  after  art, 
which  impels  it  to  lay  eager,  unrelenting  hands 
upon  the  products  of  a  score  of  centuries,  and, 
in  a  single  day,  to  call  them  "  mine." 

But  I  was  fast  nearing  the  goal  of  my  desire, 
and  the  claims  of  pressing  needs  were  crowding 
out  the  visions  of  the  morning.  I  had  passed 
through  the  wilderness  by  which  the  Pittsburg 
&  Fort  Wayne  Railroad  enters  the  outskirts  of 
Chicago.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  had 
stretched  a  dreary  plain  broken  by  the  ridges  of 
sand-dunes,  among  which  stood  dwarfed  oaks, 


8  THE  WORKERS 

and  gnarled  and  stunted  pines,  and  the  slender, 
graceful  stems  of  white-barked  birches,  on  whose 
twigs  the  last  brown  leaves  of  autumn  rustled  in 
the  winter  wind.  Upon  my  right  I  saw  at  last 
the  broad  bosom  of  the  lake,  gleaming  like 
burnished  steel  under  the  threatening  sky,  and 
breaking  into  a  line  of  inky  blackness  where  it 
lapped  the  pebbles  on  the  beach. 

Presently  I  learn  that  I  am  in  South  Chicago, 
and  I  note  the  converging  lines  of  railways  that 
cross  the  streets  on  the  level  at  every  possible 
angle,  and  the  surface  cable-cars,  and  the  long 
line  of  blast-furnaces  by  the  lake,  and  elevators 
here  and  there,  and  huge  factories,  and  the  myr- 
iad homes  of  workingmen.  It  is  all  a  black- 
ened chaos  to  my  eyes,  rude  and  crude  and  raw, 
and  I  wonder  that  orderly  commerce  can  flow 
through  channels  so  confused. 

But  the  streets  are  soon  more  regular,  and  for 
some  time  I  have  been  checking  off,  by  their  de- 
creasing numerals,  the  approach  to  my  journey's 
end.  I  am  in  the  midst  of  a  seemingly  endless 
suburban  region.  There  are  wide  stretches  of 
open  prairie,  cut  through  by  city  streets;  there 
are  city  buildings  of  brick  and  stone  standing 
alone,  or  in  groups  of  twos  and  threes,  stark  and 
appealing  in  their  lonely  waiting  for  flanking 
neighbors;  and  there  are  comfortable  wooden 


THE   ARMY   OF  THE   UNEMPLOYED  9 

cottages  set  with  an  air  of  rural  seclusion  among 
trees,  and  having  lawns  and  garden  areas  about 
them ;  and  then  there  are  whole  squares  built  up 
like  the  nuclei  of  new  communities  with  con- 
ventional three-storied  dwellings,  and  the  varied 
shops  of  local  retail  trade,  and  abundant  saloons. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  I  stop  to  rest  on  the 
platform  of  the  Woodlawn  station  of  the  Illinois 
Central  Railway.  For  some  time  I  have  had 
glimpses  within  a  highly  boarded  enclosure  of 
towering  iron  frames,  with  their  graceful,  sweep- 
ing arches  meeting  at  dizzy  heights,  and  appear- 
ing like  the  fragmentary  skeletons  of  mammoths 
mounted  in  an  open  paleontological  museum. 

The  suburban  trains  are  rushing  in  and  out  of 
the  station  with  nearly  the  frequency  of  elevated 
trains  in  New  York,  and  not  far  away  are  lines 
of  cable-cars,  where  a  five-cent  fare  would  take 
me,  in  a  few  minutes,  over  the  weary  miles 
which  intervene  to  the  business  portion  of  the 
town.  But  I  have  not  one  cent,  and  much  less 
five,  and  if  I  had  so  much  as  that  it  would  go  for 
food,  for  I  am  tired,  it  is  true,  but  I  am  much 
hungrier  than  tired. 

There  is  a  hopeful  prospect  in  the  air  of  im- 
mense activity  in  this  neighborhood.  I  have 
easily  recognized  the  vast  enclosure  beyond  as 
Jackson  Park,  and  the  steel  skeletons  as  the 


10  THE   WORKERS 

frames  of  the  exposition  buildings.  Thousands 
of  men  are  at  work  there,  and  the  growing  vol- 
ume of  the  enterprise  may  furnish  a  ready  chance 
of  employment.  I  am  but  a  few  steps  from  the 
Sixty-third  Street  entrance,  and,  in  my  igno- 
rance, I  am  soon  pressing  through,  when  a  gate- 
keeper challenges  me,  civilly: 

"  Let  me  see  your  ticket" 

"  I  have  no  ticket,"  I  reply. 

He  is  roused  in  an  instant,  and  he  steps  threat- 
eningly toward  me,  his  voice  deepening  in  anger. 

"  Get  out  of  this,  then,  you  d hobo,  or  I'll 

put  you  out!  " 

At  the  gate  I  stand  my  ground  in  the  right  of 
a  citizen  and  explain  that  I  am  looking  for  work, 
and  am  hopeful  of  a  job  from  one  of  the  bosses. 

"  This  ain't  no  time  to  see  a  boss,"  is  his  re- 
tort; "  they're  all  busy.  If  we  let  you  fellows 
in  here  we'd  be  lousy  with  hoboes  in  an  hour. 
Come  at  seven  in  the  morning,  if  you  like,  and 
take  your  chances  with  the  others.  Only  my  pri- 
vate tip  to  you  is  that  you  ain't  got  no  chance, 
not  yet." 

Not  far  away  there  are  many  new  buildings 
going  up,  huge,  unlovely  shells  of  brick  that 
even  at  this  stage  tell  plainly  their  struggles  with 
the  purely  utilitarian  problem  of  a  maximum  of 
room  accommodation  at  a  minimum  of  cost.  I 


THE  ARMY   OF  THE   UNEMPLOYED          11 

walk  toward  the  nearest  one,  pondering,  the 
while,  the  meaning  of  the  word  hobo,  new  to  me, 
and  having  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that,  for 
the  first  time,  I  have  been  taken,  not  for  an  un- 
employed laborer  in  honest  search  of  work,  but 
for  one  of  the  professionally  idle. 

It  has  begun  to  rain,  a  dreary,  sopping  drizzle, 
half  mist,  half  melting  snow,  heavy  with  the  soot 
of  the  upper  air,  and  it  clings  tenaciously,  until 
my  threadbare  outer  coat  is  twice  its  normal 
weight,  and  my  leaking  boots  pump  the  slimy 
pavement  water  at  every  step. 

For  two  hours  or  more  I  go  from  one  con- 
tractor to  another,  among  the  new  buildings,  ask- 
ing work.  The  interviews  are  short  and  decisive. 
The  typical  boss  is  he  who  is  moving  anxious- 
eyed  among  his  men  with  attention  fixed  upon, 
some  detail.  He  hears  without  heeding  my  re- 
quest, and  he  shouts  an  order  before  he  turns  to 
me  with  an  imperative  "  !No,  I  don't  want  you !  " 
and  sometimes  an  added  curse. 

"  I  guess  you  are  the  fiftieth  man  that  has 
asked  me  for  a  job  to-day,"  said  one  boss,  more 
communicative  than  the  others.  "  I'm  sorry  for 
you  poor  devils,"  he  added,  with  a  searching  look 
into  my  face,  "  but  there's  too  many  of  you." 

My  walk  has  carried  me  now  through  the  com- 
ing Midway  Plaisance  and  past  the  grounds  of 


12  THE   WORKERS 

the  new  Chicago  University  to  the  outskirts  of  a 
park.  I  enter  there  with  a  feeling  of  relief,  for 
I  am  soon  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  infinite  em- 
ployment where  there  is  no  work  for  me.  Here 
there  are  open  lawns,  with  snow  crystals  cling- 
ing to  the  tender  turf,  and  trees  of  bewildering 
variety  whose  boughs  are  outstretched  in  grace- 
ful benediction  over  winding  walks  and  drives 
and  the  curving,  mossy  banks  of  lakes. 

When  I  emerge  from  this  touch  of  nature  and 
high  art  it  is  upon  a  stately  boulevard  of  double 
drives  and  quadruple  rows  of  sturdy  elms  which 
line  the  bridle-paths  and  wide  pavements.  Mile 
after  mile  I  walk,  tired  and  hungry  and  wet,  and 
quite  lost  in  wonder.  Is  there  in  the  wide  world 
a  city  street  to  match  with  this?  Rising  in  a 
paradise  of  landscape  gardening  it  stretches  its 
majestic  length  like  the  broad  sweep  of  another 
Champs  Elysees,  flanked  by  palaces  of  un- 
counted cost  and  unimagined  horror  of  architect- 
ure, opening  here  to  a  stretch  of  wide  prairie,  and 
closing  there  to  the  front  of  a  "  block  "  of  houses 
of  uncompromising  Philistinism  and  decorations 
of  "  unchastened  splendor,"  and  reaching,  at 
times,  its  native  dignity  in  a  setting  of  buildings 
which  tell  the  final  truth  of  the  elegance  of 
simplicity. 

It  has  grown  dark  when  I  enter  Michigan 


THE   ARMY   OF  THE   UNEMPLOYED          13 

Avenue,  and  again  my  way  stretches  far  before 
me,  this  time  under  converging  lines  of  lights 
that  seem  to  meet  at  an  almost  infinite  distance. 
The  sense  of  infinity  is  heightened  by  the  float- 
ing mist,  in  which  the  nearer  lights  play  with 
an  effect  of  orange  halo  about  them,  and  the  far- 
ther lamps  shine  in  an  ever  vaguer  distance  be- 
hind their  clinging  veils  of  fog. 

Scarcely  a  soul  is  in  the  street.  It  is  a  resi- 
dence quarter  of  much  wealth,  and  like  all  else 
that  I  have  seen  so  far,  of  strangest  incongruities. 
Houses  of  lavish  cost  and  shabbiest  economy  of 
taste,  so  gorgeous  that  you  can  scarcely  believe 
them  private  homes,  give  way,  at  times,  to  lines 
of  brown  fronts  precisely  like  those  which  in  un- 
varying uniformity  of  basement  and  "  stoop  " 
and  four-storied  fagade,  flank  miles  of  dreary 
side-streets  in  New  York.  These  yield  in  turn 
to  churches  and  apartment-houses  and  hotels  and 
clubs — all  creating  an  atmosphere  of  wealth  and 
of  social  refinement,  while  almost  interspersed 
with  them  are  homes  of  apparent  poverty  and 
certainly  of  gentility  on  the  ravelled  edge  of 
things.  And  bursting  now  through  all  this  med- 
ley is  the  clanging,  rumbling  rush  of  railway 
traffic.  I  can  scarcely  believe  my  eyes  at  first, 
but  under  the  frowning  walls  of  a  towering  ar- 
mory I  am  held  up  by  the  downward  sweep  of  the 


14  THE   WORKERS 

gates  of  a  railway  crossing,  on  the  dead  level  of 
the  avenue,  and  am  kept  there  until  a  freight- 
train  has  crawled  past  its  creaking  length. 

It  all  seems  a  meaningless  chaos  at  the  first, 
but  soon  I  feel  the  pulse  of  the  life  within  it, 
a  young  life  of  glorious  vigor  and  of  indomitable 
resolve  to  attain  what  it  so  strongly  feels  though 
vaguely  knows.  And  here  and  there  I  can  see 
the  promise  of  its  fair  fruition  in  lines  of  strength 
and  power  and  beauty,  where  the  hand  of  some 
true  master  has  wrought  a  home  for  the  abiding 
of  good  taste. 

Soon  there  is  an  abrupt  end  of  buildings  on 
my  right,  and  the  land  fades  away  into  an  open 
plain,  and  from  out  the  sleet-swept  darkness  be- 
yond comes  faintly  the  sound  of  "  crisping  rip- 
ples on  the  beach."  I  know  that  I  am  at  my 
journey's  end,  for  I  have  begun  to  catch  glimpses 
of  Ossa-piled-on-Pelion  structures  which  rise  in 
graceless  lines  into  the  black  night.  I  come  up 
all  standing  before  one  of  these,  a  veritable  Pa- 
lazzo Vecchio,  huge,  impenetrable,  vast,  bringing 
into  this  !N~ew- World  city  something  of  the  sense 
of  time  and  density  of  the  Piazza  della  Signoria. 

Here,  too,  the  avenue  is  almost  deserted,  and 
I  turn  sharply  under  the  massive  battlements  of 
this  Florentine  palace,  to  where  the  glare  of 
many  lights  and  the  counter-currents  of  street- 


THE  ARMY   OF  THE   UNEMPLOYED         15 

crowds  attract  me.  Across  Wabash  Avenue  I 
pass  on  to  State  Street  My  eye  has  just  begun  to 
note  the  novelties  of  the  scene  when  it  falls  upon 
the  figure  of  a  young  man.  He  stands  in  the 
middle  of  the  pavement  at  the  corner,  and  swiftly 
hands  printed  slips  of  white  paper  among  the 
moving  crowd.  Many  persons  pass  unheeding, 
but  a  few  accept  the  proffered  notice.  I  take 
one,  and  I  stop  for  a  moment  on  the  curb  to  read 
it.  Its  purport  as  an  invitation  to  attend  a  Gos- 
pel meeting  has  become  clear  to  me,  when  I  find 
the  young  man  at  my  side.  He  wears  a  heavy 
winter  ulster  that  reaches  to  his  boot-tops,  and  its 
rolling  collar  is  turned  up  snugly  about  his  ears. 
On  his  hands  are  dog-skin  gloves,  and  the  rays  of 
street-lights  glisten  in  the  myriad  drops  of  half- 
frozen  mist  that  cling  like  heavy  dew  to  the 
rough,  woollen  surface  of  his  coat.  I  must  cut 
a  figure  standing  there,  wet  and  travel-stained, 
my  teeth  chattering  audibly  in  the  cold  night- 
air,  and  it  is  plainly  my  evident  fitness  as  a  field 
for  Christian  work  that  has  drawn  to  me  the 
notice  of  this  young  evangelist. 

"  That  meeting  is  not  far,"  he  is  saying,  "  send 
it's  warm  there.  Won't  you  go?  " 

"  Thank  you,  I  will,"  is  my  ready  reply,  and 
then  he  politely  points  the  way  down  a  side  street 
on  the  left  where,  he  says,  a  large  transparency 


16  THE  WORKERS 

over  the  door  marks  the  entrance  to  the  meeting- 
hall. 

The  place  is  crowded  with  men — workingmen 
many  of  them — and  many  are  plainly  of  that 
blear-eyed,  bedraggled,  cowering  type  which  one 
soon  learns  to  distinguish  from  the  workers. 
Men  pass  freely  in  and  out  with  no  disturbance 
to  the  meeting,  and  watching  my  chance  I  soon 
slip  into  a  vacant  seat  near  the  great  stove  that 
burns  red-hot  half  way  up  the  room.  Ah,  the 
luxury  of  the  warmth  and  the  undisputed  right 
to  sit  in  restful  comfort !  Again  and  again,  in  the 
afternoon  I  had  sat  down  on  the  steps  of  some 
public  building,  but  from  every  passing  eye  had 
come  a  shot  of  questioning  suspicion,  and  once 
a  patrolling  officer  ordered  me  to  move  on  with  a 
sharp  reminder  that  "  the  step  of  a  church  was 
no  loafing-place." 

Deeper  and  deeper  I  sink  into  my  seat  A 
warm,  seductive  ease  enfolds  me.  I  dare  not  fall 
asleep  for  fear  of  being  turned  into  the  street. 
And  yet  the  very  hint  of  going  out  again  into  the 
shelterless  night  comes  over  me  in  the  dim  sense 
of  fading  consciousness  as  a  thought  so  gro- 
tesquely impossible  that  I  nearly  laugh  aloud. 
Out  from  this  warmth  and  light  and  cover  into 
the  pitiless  inhospitality  of  the  open  town?  Oh, 
no,  that  is  beyond  conceiving !  And  all  the  while 


"THAT  MEETING  is  NOT  FAR,"  HE  is  SAYING,  "AND  IT'S  WARM  THERE.     WON'T 

yor  GO  ? " 


THE  ARMY   OF  THE  UNEMPLOYED          17 

I  know — such  is  the  subtlety  of  our  instinctive 
thinking — that  it  is  the  awful  fear  of  this  that 
conquers  now  the  overmastering  sleep  which 
woos  me. 

The  men  are  singing  lustily  under  inspiring 
leadership  and  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  cornet 
and  harmonium.  Short  prayers  are  offered,  and 
fervent  exhortations,  interspersed  with  hymns, 
are  made,  and  finally  the  men  are  urged  to 
"  testify." 

I  follow  in  vague  anxiety  the  change  of  exer- 
cise, but  no  clear  idea  reaches  me;  for  in  full 
possession  of  my  mind  is  the  haunting  fear  of  a 
benediction  which  will  send  us  out  again.  But 
while  the  men  are  speaking  in  quick  succession 
there  begins  to  pierce  to  the  benumbed  seat  of 
thought  a  sense  of  something  very  living.  Their 
speech,  in  simplest,  homeliest  phrase,  is  of  things 
most  intimate  and  real.  They  speak  of  life — 
their  own — sunk  to  deepest  degradation.  They 
tell  the  story  of  growing  drunkenness  and  vice, 
of  hope  fast  fading  out  of  life,  of  faith  and  honor 
and  self-respect  all  gone,  and  at  last  the  outer 
dark  wherein  men  live  to  feed  their  passions  and 
blaspheme  until  they  dare  to  die,  or  death  antici- 
pates the  courage  of  despair.  And  then  the  pur- 
port of  it  all  shines  clear  in  what  they  have  to  tell 
of  a  Divine  hand  reached  out  to  them,  of  trem- 


18  THE   WORKERS 

bling  hope  and  love  reborn,  of  desire  after  right- 
eousness breathing  anew  in  a  prayer  for  help. 

Now  I  am  all  vividly  alive  and  keen,  for, 
standing  straight  not  far  from  where  I  sit,  is  a 
grand  figure  of  a  man.  He  is  bronzed,  deep- 
chested,  lithe,  and  in  the  setting  of  his  shoulders 
there  is  splendid  strength,  which  shows  again  in 
the  broad,  clean-cut  hands  that  quiver  in  their 
grip  upon  the  seat  in  front.  He  has  the  modest 
bearing  of  a  gentleman,  and  his  unfaltering  voice 
vibrates  with  a  compelling  sense  of  deep  sincer- 
ity. 

"  I  haven't  any  story  different  from  what 
you've  heard  to-night,  but  I,  too,  want  to  tell 
what  God  has  done  for  me.  When  I  got  my 
growth  I  went  West,  and  turned  cow-puncher. 
I  was  young,  and  I  liked  the  life  and  the  men, 
and  I  went  over  pretty  much  all  the  western 
country,  and  there  ain't  any  kind  of  devilment 
that  cowboys  get  into  that  I  didn't  have  a  hand 
in.  I  never  thought  of  God  nor  of  my  soul.  I 
never  cared.  I  despised  religion.  I  thought  that 
I  was  strong  and  master  of  myself.  I  drank  and 
swore  and  gambled,  and  did  worse,  and  it  never 
troubled  me  a  bit.  But  a  time  came  when  I 
found  that  I  wasn't  master.  There  was  some- 
thing in  me  stronger  than  me,  and  that  was  the 
love  of  drink.  And,  friends,  that  was  the  be- 


THE  ARMY   OF   THE   UNEMPLOYED          19 

ginning  of  the  end.  I  began  to  lose  my  self-re- 
spect, and  the  end  of  it  was  that  there  ain't  a  poor 
devil  in  this  town  that  is  sunk  any  lower  than 
what  I  was.  You  know  what  that  means.  One 
night,  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  I  was  walking 
through  Harrison  Street.  I  was  half-drunk  on 
barrel-house  whiskey,  and  all  I  was  thinking  of 
was  how  I  could  get  up  pluck  enough  to  kill  my- 
self. But  I  stopped  in  a  crowd  around  some 
Salvation  Army  people.  A  man  older  than  me 
was  telling  how  he  was  helped  by  the  power  of 
God  out  of  a  life  like  mine  and  made  a  man  of 
again.  I  liked  the  way  he  had,  for  he  seemed 
straight.  I  waited  for  him,  and  he  told  me,  all 
to  myself,  the  story  of  Christ's  power  to  save 
lost  men,  and  how  He  lived  and  died  to  save  us. 
It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  I'd  known  it  in 
a  way,  but  I  never  knew  it  was  meant  for  me. 
And  right  away  when  I  began  to  see  that  there 
was  hope  for  me  yet,  that  I  could  get  back  my 
self-respect,  and  be  master  of  myself,  not  in  my 
own  strength,  which  had  failed  me,  but  in  His 
strength,  why,  friends,  my  heart  went  right  out 
to  the  Saviour  in  a  prayer  for  help.  And  what 
I  want  to  say  most  of  all  is  this,  that  in  all  the 
hard  fight  that  I've  had  since,  in  all  the  ups  and 
downs  of  it,  He  hasn't  failed  me  once.  He's 
made  rny  life  new  to  me,  and  I  love  Him  from 


20  THE   WORKERS 

my  heart,  and  I  know  that  in  His  strength  I  will 
gain  the  victory  at  last.  Friends,  what  the  Bible 
tells  us  about  His  '  saving  us  from  our  sins '  is 
true." 

He  sits  down,  and  a  hymn  is  given  out  and 
sung,  but  the  truth  which  has  found  lodgement 
in  our  hearts  is  the  living  truth  of  a  human  life 
reclaimed.  We  have  listened  to  the  story  of  the 
prodigal  from  his  own  lips.  We  have  heard 
again  the  cosmic  parable  of  wandering  and  re- 
turn; the  mystery  of  creation,  and  fall,  and  re- 
creation by  a  power  divine  ;  the  great,  irrefuta- 
ble witness  to  the  Truth  in  the  history  of  a  lost 
soul  come  to  itself  and  returning  to  the  Father's 
house. 

In  the  midst  of  the  singing  the  leader  walks 
quietly  down  the  aisle  to  the  rear.  Two  ladies 
are  there  struggling  in  a  vain  effort  to  quiet  an 
old  man.  They  have  come  to  help  in  the  conduct 
of  the  service,  and  the  old  man  has  increasingly 
claimed  their  care,  for  he  is  drunk  and  is  grow- 
ing violent.  I  have  noticed  him  in  his  restless 
movements.  Upon  his  stooping  figure  he  wears 
an  old  army  coat  and  cape  that  are  dripping  with 
the  rain.  His  gray  mustache  and  beard  are 
long  and  matted,  and  stained  all  round  his 
mouth  with  the  deep  brown  of  tobacco-juice. 
His  unkempt  hair  falls  in  frowsy  masses  about 


THE  ARMY   OF   THE   UNEMPLOYED         21 

his  ears,  and  his  lustreless  eyes,  inflamed  and  ex- 
pressionless, bulge  from  their  swollen  sockets. 

In  an  instant  the  leader's  strong  hand  is  upon 
him,  and  with  no  commotion  above  the  sound 
of  song  the  old  man  is  soon  without  the  hall,  and 
the  leader  back  in  his  place  again  singing  as 
heartily  as  ever. 

"When  the  meeting  ends  the  crowd  moves 
slowly  and  listlessly  toward  the  door,  as  though 
its  prevailing  mood  were  aimless  beyond  the  dull 
necessity  of  passing  the  time.  The  fine  rain  and 
melting  snow  are  still  falling  through  the  mist. 
The  men  drift  away  singly  or  in  groups  of 
twos  and  threes,  under  the  flickering  lights, 
their  heads  bent  slightly  forward  and  their 
bare  hands  thrust  into  the  side-pockets  of  their 
trousers. 

In  the  crush  about  the  foot  of  the  aisle  a  young 
man  speaks  to  me : 

"  You  are  pretty  wet,  aren't  you? "  he  says, 
quietly,  as  the  jam  presses  him  against  me. 

I  see  at  a  glance  that  he  is  far  more  respectable 
than  I,  and  my  first  mental  attitude  is  one  of 
hospitality  to  further  evangelizing  effort.  But 
I  shift  at  once,  for  without  waiting  for  a  reply 
from  me,  he  adds: 

"  It's  d tough  to  go  out  into  that,"  as  he 

turns  up  the  collar  of  his  light  covert  coat  in  the 


22  THE   WORKERS 

blast  of  piercing  dampness  which  strikes  our 
faces  through  the  open  door. 

"  It  is  tough,"  I  agree,  as  I  study  his  face.  He 
is  about  thirty,  I  should  say,  and  almost  six  feet 
high,  but  of  rather  slender  figure.  He  is  smooth- 
shaven,  and  an  effect  of  pallor  is  heightened  by 
yellow  hair  and  pale  blue  eyes,  with  dark  arcs 
beneath  them  and  a  bluish  tinge  about  his 
mouth.  Plainly  he  has  been  little  exposed  to  the 
outer  air,  but  he  is  an  habitual  workman,  as  his 
hands  attest  unmistakably  when  he  lifts  them  to 
adjust  his  coat-collar. 

"  Ain't  you  got  no  place  to  go  to?  "  he  asks. 

"  No." 

"  No  more  have  I,"  he  adds,  laconically.  And 
then,  after  a  pause: 

"  When  did  you  strike  this  town? " 

"  This  evening." 

"  Looking  for  a  job?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Same  as  me.    "What  kind  of  a  job? " 

"  Any  kind  that  I  can  get." 

"  Ain't  you  got  a  trade?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  I  don't  believe  you  are  any  worse  off 
for  that  here.  I  struck  the  place  yesterday  and 
I  ain't  never  seen  so  many  idle  men  and  hoboes 
in  my  life  before.  "When  the  iron-works  in 


THE  AEMY   OF   THE   UNEMPLOYED         23 

Cleveland  closed  down,  that  laid  me  off.  I 
couldn't  get  no  job  there,  and  so  I  beat  my  way 
here.  I  had  fifty  cents  in  my  clothes  and  that 
got  me  something  to  eat  yesterday  and  a  bed 
last  night,  but  I  spent  my  last  cent  for  grub  this 
noon.  I've  been  to  most  every  foundry  in  Chi- 
cago, I  guess,  but  I  ain't  found  any  sign  of  a  job 
yet.  Where  are  you  going  to  put  in  the  night?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  for  I  haven't  any  money 
either." 

"  I  am  going  to  the  Harrison  Street  station 
and  I'll  show  you  the  way,  partner,  if  you  like. 
My  name  is  Clark,  Thomas  L.  Clark,"  he  adds, 
with  a  particularity  which  is  another  proof  of  his 
belonging  to  a  higher  order  of  workingmen 
than  I. 

I  tell  him  my  name,  but  he  evidently  con- 
siders it  not  a  serviceable  one,  for  he  ignores  it 
from  the  first,  and  consistently  makes  use  of 
"  partner." 

"We  walk  together  in  the  direction  of  State 
Street,  and  Clark  explains  to  me  that  we  must 
not  go  to  the  station  until  after  midnight,  a  fact 
which  he  had  learned,  and  the  reasons  for  it, 
from  an  acquaintance  in  a  cheap  lodging-house 
where  he  had  spent  the  night  before. 

At  the  corner  I  hold  Clark  for  a  moment  until 
my  eyes  have  caught  the  character  of  the  street. 


24  THE   WORKERS 

It  is  wide,  with  broad  pavements  on  each  side, 
and  is  lined  with  great  business  houses  of  retail 
trade,  the  "  department  store  "  the  prevailing 
type.  The  shop-windows  are  ablaze  with  electric 
lights,  and  gorgeous  as  to  displays  which  are 
taking  on  a  holiday  character.  Whole  fronts  of 
some  of  the  buildings  are  fairly  covered  with 
temporary  signs,  painted  in  gigantic  letters  on 
canvas  stretched  on  wooden  frames,  and  vying 
fiercely  in  strident  announcements  of  "  sweep- 
ing reductions "  and  "  moving,"  and  "  bank- 
rupt," and  "  fire  sales." 

There  is  little  noise  upon  the  street  aside  from 
the  almost  constant  swishing  rush  of  cable-cars 
and  the  irritating  clangor  of  their  gongs.  The 
crowds  had  wholly  disappeared.  There  are  a  few 
pedestrians,  who  hold  their  umbrellas  close  above 
their  heads,  and  step  briskly  in  evident  haste  to 
get  in  out  of  the  stormy  night,  and  we  pass  men 
of  our  own  type  who  are  drifting  aimlessly,  and 
now  and  then  a  stalwart  officer,  well-booted  and 
snug  under  his  waterproof,  with  his  arms  folded 
and  his  club  held  tight  in  the  pressure  of  an 
armpit. 

"We  are  walking  south  along  the  west  side  of 
State  Street.  There  is  a  swift  social  decline 
here,  for  every  door  we  pass  is  that  of  a  saloon; 
and  above  us  hang  frequent  transparencies  which 


THE  ARMY   OF  THE  UNEMPLOYED          25 

advertise  lodgings  at  ten  and  fifteen  cents,  while 
across  the  way  are  the  flaring  lights  of  a  cheap 
theatre. 

"  We  can  get  warm  in  here,"  says  Clark,  ab- 
ruptly, and  he  turns  into  a  doorway  which  opens 
on  the  street. 

I  follow  him  down  a  narrow  passage  whose 
faint  light  enters  through  a  stained-glass  parti- 
tion, which  hems  it  in  along  the  inner  side  wall  of 
the  building.  Through  a  door  at  the  end  of 
the  passage  we  enter  a  large  room  brilliantly 
lighted,  and  I  follow  Clark  to  an  iron  stove  at 
one  side  in  which  a  coal  fire  burns  furiously.  In 
the  corner  near  us  are  three  men,  slouching,  list- 
less, weary  specimens  of  their  kind,  who  are  play- 
ing "  Comrades  "  with  a  gusto  curiously  out  of 
keeping  with  their  looks  of  bored  fatigue.  One 
has  a  harp,  another  a  violin,  and  the  third  drums 
ceaselessly  upon  a  piano  of  harsh,  metallic  tone. 

There  are  a  dozen  round  tables  in  the  room, 
and  at  these  are  seated  small  groups  of  men  and 
women  drinking  beer.  Some  of  the  men  are 
workmen,  but  most  are  loafers,  not  of  the  tramp 
but  of  the  rough  civic  type. 

The  women  are  young,  most  of  them  very 
young,  and  there  is  little  trace  of  beauty  and  al- 
most none  of  hard  brutality  in  any  face  among 
them.  They  are  simply  commonplace.  As  a  com- 


26  THE   WORKERS 

pany  the  women  lack  the  hale  robustness  of  the 
men.  They  are  mostly  little  women,  of  slight  fig- 
ures, and  some  add  to  this  a  transparency  of  skin 
and  a  feverish  brightness  of  eye  which  clearly 
mark  the  sure  burning  of  consumption.  A  few 
are  cast  in  sturdier  mould,  and,  with  faces  flushed 
with  drink,  they  look  strong  and  healthy.  All 
seem  warmly  dressed  in  cheap,  worn  garments 
suited  to  the  season,  and  there  are  many  touches 
of  finery  and  some  even  of  taste  in  their  shabby 
winter  hats.  Each  carries  a  leather  purse  in  her 
hand,  or  allows  it  to  lie  on  the  table  before  her 
with  her  gloves.  The  hands  of  nearly  all  of 
them  are  bare,  and  you  see  at  once  that  they  are 
large  and  coarse  and  very  dirty. 

Suddenly  you  note  that  the  social  atmosphere 
is  one  of  strangest,  completest  camaraderie.  The 
conversation  is  the  blasphemous,  obscenest  gos- 
sip of  degraded  men  that  keeps  the  deal  level  of 
the  ordinary  unrelieved  by  anger  or  by  mirth, 
and  varying  only  with  the  indifferent  inter- 
change of  men's  and  women's  voices. 

The  naturalness  and  untrammelled  social  ease 
have  blinded  you  for  a  time  to  what  you  really 
see,  and  then  the  black  reality  reveals  itself  in 
human  degradation  below  which  there  is  no 
depth — as  though  lost,  sexless  souls  were  already 
met  upon  a  common  plane  of  deepest  knowledge 


THE  ARMY   OF  THE   UNEMPLOYED          27 

of  all  evil.  And  yet  in  very  truth  they  are  living 
fellow  men  and  women,  in  whom  have  centred 
the  strength  of  natural  love  and  hope,  and  centres 
still  the  constraining  love  of  a  Heavenly  Father. 

Clark  is  whispering  in  my  ear: 

"  I  guess  we'd  better  get  out  of  this.  That 
waiter  has  his  eye  on  us.  In  a  minute  he'll  ask 
us  for  our  orders." 

We  pass  again  through  the  garish  lights  that 
flood  the  pavements  before  saloons  from  whose 
inner  chambers  come  the  tinkling,  brassy  notes 
of  cheap  music. 

"  Are  they  all  like  that  place  we've  been  in?  " 
I  ask. 

"  These  dives,  you  mean?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  They  are  all  the  same.  There  are  hundreds 
like  them  in  this  town,"  he  answers. 

Near  the  centre  of  what  appears  to  be  the 
chief  business  section  of  the  street  Clark  turns 
into  a  dark  entry. 

"  Come  up  here,"  he  says  to  me  over  his 
shoulder. 

"  What  is  this? "  I  call  after  him  from  the 
threshold. 

"  Here's  where  I  slept  last  night,"  he  replies. 

I  follow  up  a  flight  of  filthy  wooden  steps. 
Under  the  light  of  a  single  gas-jet  which  burns 


28  THE   WORKERS 

faintly  over  the  first  landing,  we  turn  to  a  door 
at  the  right.  Within  is  a  sustained  volume  of 
men's  voices  at  conversation  pitch,  and  we  enter 
at  once  upon  a  company  of  thirty  or  forty  men 
seated  on  wooden  benches  around  a  base-burner, 
or  standing  in  groups  within  the  compass  of  its 
grateful  warmth.  The  unmoving  air  is  thick 
with  tobacco-smoke,  and  dense  with  pollution  be- 
yond all  but  the  suggesting  power  of  words.  An 
electric  arc  gleams  from  the  centre-ceiling,  and 
sputters  and  hisses  above  the  noise  of  mingled 
speech.  In  the  ghastly  light  the  floor  and  walls, 
are  covered  with  black  shadows,  sharply  artic- 
ulated, and  revealing  clearly  through  their  rest- 
less movements  the  ragged,  unkempt  condition 
of  the  men. 

In  one  corner  is  an  office  quite  like  a  ticket- 
booth  at  an  athletic  field,  and  behind  the  narrow 
window  stands  a  man  with  an  open  book  before 
him.  His  eyes  wander  ceaselessly  over  the  com- 
pany, and  presently  he  steps  out  into  the  open 
room.  He  is  making  straight  for  Clark  and  me ; 
his  grease-stained,  worn,  black  suit  hanging  loose 
about  his  wasted  figure,  a  something  not  unlike  a 
small  decanter-stopper  glistening  on  the  bosom 
of  his  soiled,  collarless,  white  shirt,  his  singularly 
repulsive  face  growing  clearer  as  he  comes,  the 
receding  forehead  and  small,  weak,  close-set 


THE  ARMY   OF  THE   UNEMPLOYED          29 

piercing  eyes,  the  high  cheek-bones  and  bristling 
black  mustache  over  a  drooping  mouth  stained 
with  tobacco.  He  walks  straight  up  to  Clark. 

"  You  was  here  last  night?  "  he  asks  with  ris- 
ing inflection  and  a  German  accent. 

"  Yes,"  says  Clark.  "  I  come  up  to-night  to 
see  a  fellow  I  know,"  he  adds  of  his  own  initia- 
tive. 

"  Do  you  see  him? "  says  the  clerk. 

"  No." 

"  "Was  you  and  your  pal  going  to  take  beds?  " 

"  No." 

And  in  the  awkward  situation  thus  created, 
Clark  and  I  go  out  once  more  from  the  luxury  of 
warmth  and  shelter. 

The  pavements  are  now  in  possession  of 
crowds  returning  from  the  theatres,  and  at  cer- 
tain crossings  is  a  rush  for  cable-cars  going 
south.  We  turn  down  Quincy  Street.  It  is  still 
almost  an  hour  before  midnight.  Simultane- 
ously we  notice  a  deep,  wide  entry  of  a  business 
house,  so  deep  that  its  inner  corners  are  quite 
dry,  and  one  of  them  is  fairly  shielded  from  the 
wind.  With  a  mutual  impulse  we  turn  in,  and 
crouch  close  together  on  the  paved  floor  in  the 
shade  of  the  sheltered  corner. 

We  sit  in  perfect  silence  for  a  time.  Our 
teeth  have  begun  again  to  chatter,  and  it  is  diffi- 


30  THE   WORKERS 

cult  to  speak.  Besides,  we  have  nothing  to  say 
beyond  the  wish  that  we  were  fed  and  warmed 
and  sheltered,  and  this  is  such  a  deepening  long- 
ing to  us  both  that  we  have  begun  to  keep  a  rev- 
erent silence  about  it. 

Xot  half  a  score  of  people  pass  us  as  we  crouch 
there  through  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  more,  and 
none  of  them  sees  us,  which  is  fortunate ;  for  one 
of  the  number  is  a  policeman,  who  walks  down 
the  other  side,  swinging  his  club  in  easy  rhythm 
to  his  sauntering  steps. 

But  now  once  more  we  feel  the  tension  of  anx- 
ious waiting,  for  again  we  hear  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps fast  approaching.  A  lifted  umbrella  first 
appears,  and  under  it  a  woman's  dark  skirt,  all  wet 
about  the  hem,  and  clinging  to  her  ankles  as  she 
walks  and  vainly  tries  to  hold  it  free  from  the 
sloppy  pavement  Her  eyes  are  on  the  ground, 
and  she  is  humming  softly  to  herself,  and  we 
think  that  she  is  safely  past,  when  both  of  us 
start  suddenly  to  a  little  cry,  an  exclamation  of 
surprise: 

"  Oh-h-h!  what  in  h are  you  boys  doing 

there?  "  And  the  question  has  in  it  a  note  of 
light-hearted  merriment,  as  though  the  words 
had  come  upon  a  wave  of  rippling  laughter. 

She  is  facing  us  near  at  hand,  her  head  framed 
in  the  dark  umbrella  which  rests  upon  her 


SHE   IS   FACING   US   NEAR    AT    HAND.    HEK   HEAD   FRAMED    IN    THE    DARK    UMBRELLA 
WHICH    RESTS    UPON   HER    SHOULDER. 


THE   ARMY   OF  THE   UNEMPLOYED          31 

shoulder,  and  her  face  in  the  full  side-light  of  a 
neighboring  window.  Out  of  large  dark  eyes  she 
is  looking  straight  at  us,  and  I  mark  at  once  the 
clean-cut  pencilling  of  her  eyebrows  against  a 
skin  of  natural  pallor,  and  the  backward  sweep 
of  black  hair  from  a  low  forehead  and  about  her 
ears.  She  is  no  beauty,  but  her  mouth  is  one  of 
almost  faultless  drawing,  large  and  sensitive  and 
firm,  with  a  dimple  at  each  corner,  and  her  chin 
of  perfect  moulding  fades  into  the  graceful  lines 
of  a  well-rounded  throat. 

I  am  struck  dumb  for  the  moment,  but  Clark 
is  disturbed  in  no  wise  by  the  situation,  and  is 
answering  her  in  perfect  calmness  that  we  have 
taken  shelter  there,  and  "  won't  you  go  on,"  he 
asks,  "  for  you  may  attract  to  us  the  notice  of  a 
cop." 

"  He's  not  coming  this  way  yet  awhile,"  she 
retorted  ;  "  I  met  him  just  now  at  the  corner." 

They  fall  into  easy,  natural  dialogue,  and  the 
girl  soon  learns  that  we  are  newly  come  to  Chi- 
cago seeking  work,  and  hungry  and  shelterless 
we  are  waiting  for  the  right  hour  in  which  to  go 
to  the  station-house. 

"  And  why  did  you  ever  come  to  this  God- 
condemned  town  ?  "  she  asks.  "  There's  thou- 
sands of  boys  like  you  here,  and  no  jobs  for  none 
of  you." 


32  THE   WORKERS 

There  is  quick  resentment  in  Clark's  sharp 
rejoinder: 

"  And  why  in  h did  you  come? "  But 

the  girl's  good-nature  is  unruffled;  you  simply 
feel  an  instinctive  tightening  of  her  grip  upon 
herself  as  her  figure  straightens  slightly  to  the 
reply: 

"  I  come  to  hustle,  sonny,  and  I  guess  this  is 

as  good  a  place  to  hustle  in  as  any.  I'm  in 

hard  luck  to-night,  for  I  ain't  made  a  cent,  and 

I  met  that  cop  on Street.  He's  spotted  me. 

I  had  to  go  down  into  my  stocking  and  give  him 
my  last  dollar  to  fix  him,  or  else  he'd  have  run 
me  in,  and  I've  been  up  three  times  this  week. 
The  judge  told  me  he'd  send  me  to  the  Bridewell 
next  time."  She  is  a  girl  of  eighteen,  or,  per- 
haps, of  twenty  years. 

In  another  moment  I  see  her  lift  her  young, 
unfaltering  eyes  to  a  passing  stranger,  and  in 
them,  unashamed,  is  the  nameless  questioning 
which  takes  surest  hold  on  hell. 

And  now  she  has  turned  again,  and  one  soiled, 
gloveless  hand  is  outstretched  to  us. 

"  I'm  going,  boys,"  she  says.  "  Good-night. 
You  are  in  harder  luck  than  me,  for  I  ain't  hun- 
gry and  I've  got  a  place  to  sleep,  so  you  take  this. 
It  ain't  much,  but  it's  all  I've  got.  Good  luck  to 
you.  Good-night." 


THE  ARMY   OF  THE   UNEMPLOYED          33 

Men  who  have  felt  it  never  speak  lightly  of 
fear,  nor  are  they  ashamed  to  own  to  it — the  fear 
that  is  fear,  when  unprepared  you  face  a  sudden 
danger  whose  measure  you  cannot  know;  when 
the  scalp  tightens  with  a  creeping  movement  and 
the  hair  lifts  itself  on  end,  and  each  muscle 
stiffens  in  the  cold  of  swift  paralysis,  while  your 
brain  throbs  with  the  sudden  rush  of  hot  blood. 
But  there  is  a  feeling  beyond  that — "  when  the 
nerves  prick  and  tingle  and  the  heart  is  sick," 
and  the  soul  in  ineffable  agony  of  doubt  and  fear 
cries  through  a  black  and  Godless  void  for  some 
answer  to  the  mystery  of  life. 

A  silver  coin  is  glistening  in  Clark's  open 
palm. 

"  There's  two  beers  in  this,  partner,  and  a  free 
lunch  for  both  of  us,"  he  is  saying.  "  Let's  go 
to  a  saloon." 

Five  minutes  later  he  leaves  me  in  high  indig- 
nation, with  a  "  Stay,  then,  and  be  damned!  " 
and  I  feel  some  uncertainty  about  his  coming 
back. 

Soon  I  fall  into  the  dreamless  torpor  which 
comes  to  relieve  the  too-heavy  hearted.  But 
from  out  its  stupor  I  waken  sharply  to  quickest 
sensibility.  Quivering  darts  of  pain  are  shoot- 
ing swiftly  through  my  body  from  a  burning 
centre  in  my  thigh.  A  night  watchman  stands 


34  THE   WORKERS 

over  me,  holding  a  dark  lantern  to  my  face.  He 
has  roused  me  with  a  brutal  kick.  In  my  heart 
black  murder  reigns  alone  for  a  moment,  and 
then  I  remember  what  I  am,  and  I  limp 
into  the  street  speechless  under  the  watchman's 
curses. 

I  had  misjudged  Clark.  I  have  not  waited 
long  when  I  see  him  walking  toward  me.  He  is 
warmed  and  fed,  and  has  soon  forgot  his  earlier 
wrath  in  eagerness  to  "  do  "  the  night  watchman. 
From  this,  however,  it  is  not  difficult  to  dis- 
suade him  on  the  ground  of  the  weakness  of  our 
legal  status  as  compared  with  his. 

We  walk  now  toward  Harrison  Street,  and  as 
we  enter  it,  there  shines  high  from  out  the  dark- 
ness an  illumined  face  of  a  clock  with  its  hands 
pointing  to  a  few  minutes  past  the  hour  of  twelve. 
A  freight-train  is  drawing  slowly  into  the  sta- 
tion-yard, creaking  and  jolting  with  the  varying 
tug  of  a  locomotive  that  pants  deeply  to  a  steady 
pull,  and  then  puffs  hard  in  sudden  spurts  which 
send  its  wheels  "  racing  "  on  the  icy  rails.  The 
train  stands  still  with  a  sound  of  communicated 
bumping  which  loses  itself  far  down  the  yard, 
and  then  there  come  swarming  from  the  cars  a 
score  or  two  of  tramps  who  have  beaten  their  way 
into  the  city.  They  know  their  ground,  for  si- 
lent and  stooping  in  the  wet  they  make  straight, 


THE   ARMY   OF  THE  UNEMPLOYED          35 

as  with  a  common  impulse,  to  the  station-house 
on  the  corner. 

"  "We'll  leave  them  go  in  first,"  says  Clark, 
"  it's  all  the  better  for  us,"  and  then  we  walk  up 
and  down  before  the  plain  brick  building,  with 
the  lights  streaming  from  its  basement  and  first- 
floor  windows. 

By  a  short  flight  of  steps  we  finally  enter  a 
small  passage  which  opens  into  a  large,  square 
room.  A  few  police  officers  and  reporters  are 
standing  about  in  casual  conversation.  One  of- 
ficer, with  unerring  judgment  of  our  need,  beck- 
ons us  his  way,  and,  without  a  word,  he  points 
us  down  the  steps  into  the  basement.  A  locked 
door  of  iron  grating  blocks  the  way  at  the  foot  of 
the  steps,  and  we  stand  there  for  some  minutes 
while  a  newly  arrived  prisoner  is  being  registered 
and  searched.  Behind  a  high  desk  sits  a  typical, 
robust  officer  who  asks  questions  and  notes  the 
answers  in  his  book,  and  beside  him,  near  at  hand, 
a  matronly  woman  is  sewing  with  an  air  of  do- 
mesticity and  entire  oblivion  to  her  unusual  sur- 
roundings, while  near  the  prisoner  before  the 
desk,  stand  two  policemen  who  have  "  run  him 
in." 

All  these  are  in  a  wide  corridor  which  extends 
east  and  west  through  the  depth  of  the  building. 
In  its  south  wall  are  some  half  dozen  doors  of  iron 


36  THE  WORKERS 

grating,  each  opening  into  a  small  passage  at  right 
angles  to  the  main  corridor,  and  the  cells  range 
along  the  sides  of  these. 

The  prisoner  has  soon  been  disposed  of.  The 
officer  on  duty  then  unlocks  the  door  behind 
which  we  stand,  and  admits  us  before  the  desk. 
The  registrar  looks  up,  an  expression  of  irritation 
in  his  face. 

"  More  men  to  spend  the  night?  "  he  asks. 

"  Well,  turn  in,"  he  adds,  with  a  jerk  of  his 
head  to  the  left.  "  I've  got  no  more  room  for 
names.  I  guess  I've  entered  two  hundred  lodgers 
and  more  already  to-night." 

Clark  and  I  need  no  further  directions.  Over- 
flowing through  the  open  door  of  the  farthest  pas- 
sage upon  the  floor  of  the  main  corridor  are  the 
sprawling  figures  of  men  asleep.  We  walk  in 
among  them. 

"  If  we  ain't  never  had  'em,  I  guess  we'll  catch 
'em  to-night,"  says  Clark,  softly  in  my  ear,  and 
the  words  take  on  a  sickening  significance  as  we 
enter  an  unventilated  atmosphere  of  foulest  pol- 
lution, and  we  see  more  clearly  the  frowzy,  rag- 
ged garments  of  unclean  men,  and  have  glimpses 
here  and  there  of  caking  filth  upon  a  naked  limb. 

The  wisdom  of  a  late  hour  of  retiring  is  at  once 
apparent  when  we  have  sight  of  the  inner  passage. 
Not  a  square  foot  of  the  dark,  concrete  floor  is 


THE  ARMY   OF  THE   UNEMPLOYED          37 

visible.  The  space  is  packed  with  men  all  lying 
on  their  right  sides  with  their  legs  drawn  up,  and 
each  man's  legs  pressed  close  in  behind  those  of 
the  man  in  front. 

Clark  draws  from  an  inside  pocket  a  roll  of  old 
newspapers,  and  hands  me  one.  We  spread  them 
on  the  pavement  as  a  Mohammedan  unrolls  his 
mat  for  prayers,  and  then  we  take  off  our  boots 
and  coats.  Our  soaked,  pulpy  boots  we  fold  in 
our  jackets  and  use  them  as  pillows,  and  we  soften 
our  bed  by  spreading  over  the  newspapers  our 
outer  coats,  which  thus  have  a  chance  to  dry  in 
the  warmth  of  the  room  and  in  that  which  comes 
from  our  bodies.  We  need  no  covering  in  the 
steaming  heat  in  which  we  lie,  and  I  can  see  at  a 
glance  that  Clark  and  I  are  more  fortunate  than 
most  of  the  other  men,  for  few  of  them  have  outer 
coats,  and  in  their  threadbare,  filthy  garments 
they  lie  with  nothing  but  paper  between  them 
and  the  floor,  their  heads  pillowed  on  their  arms. 

By  no  means  are  all  of  them  asleep.  In  the 
thick  air  above  their  reclining  figures  there  is  an 
unceasing  murmur  of  low,  gruff  voices.  What 
words  can  fit  the  hellish  quality  of  that  strange 
converse  ?  It  is  not  human,  though  it  comes  from 
living  men;  it  has  no  humor  though  it  touches 
life  most  intimately ;  it  knows  hot  hate  and  crav- 
ing need  and  blank  indifference,  but  all  these 


38  THE   WORKERS 

feelings  speak  alike  a  tongue  of  utter  blasphemy; 
and  it  is  not  prurient  even,  though  it  reeks  with 
coarse  obscenity. 

And  in  the  men  themselves,  how  widely  sev- 
ered from  all  things  human  is  the  prevailing  type! 
— Their  bloated,  unwashed  flesh  and  unkempt 
hair;  their  hideous  ugliness  of  face,  unreclaimed 
by  marks  of  inner  strength  and  force,  but  reveal- 
ing rather,  in  the  relaxation  of  sleep,  a  deepen- 
ing of  the  lines  of  weakness,  until  you  read  in 
plainest  characters  the  paralysis  of  the  will.  And 
then  there  are  the  stealthy,  restless  eyes  of  those 
who  are  awake,  eyes  set  in  faces  which  lack  ut- 
terly the  strength  of  honest  labor  and  even  that 
of  criminal  wit. 

But  there  are  marked  exceptions  to  the  pre- 
vailing type,  men  like  Clark,  sound  and  strong 
in  flesh,  and  having  about  them  the  signs  of  hab- 
itual decency,  and  their  faces  stamped  with  the 
open  frankness  which  comes  of  earning  a  living 
by  honest  work.  Some  of  these  are  young  immi- 
grants, newly  come,  most  evidently,  and  I  picture 
their  rude  awakenings  from  golden  dreams  of  a 
land  of  plenty. 

Clark  is  fast  asleep  beside  me,  but  I  cannot 
sleep  for  gnawing  hunger  and  the  dull  pain  of 
lying  bruised  and  sore  upon  the  hard,  paved  floor. 

There  is  sudden,  nervous  movement  near  me. 


THE   ARMY   OF  THE  UNEMPLOYED.         39 

Looking  up  I  see  a  man  seated  straight,  tugging 
frantically  at  his  shirt,  and  swearing  viciously  the 
while  in  muffled  tones.  In  a  moment  he  has  torn 
the  garment  off,  and  his  crooked,  bony  fingers  are 
passing  swiftly  over  the  shrivelled  skin  of  his  old, 
lean  body  in  search  of  his  tormentors,  and  his 
oaths  come  lisping  from  his  toothless  mouth.  The 
men  about  him  are  ordering  him,  with  deepening 
curses,  to  lie  down  and  keep  still. 

The  former  quiet  soon  returns,  and  in  it  I  lie 
thinking  of  another  world  I  know,  a  world  of 
men  and  women  whose  plane  of  life  is  removed 
from  this  by  all  the  distance  of  the  infinite. 
Faith  and  love  and  high  resolve  are  there,  the  in- 
spirers  of  true  living,  and  courage  spurs  to  un- 
flinching effort,  and  hope  lights  the  way  of  unsuc- 
cess  and  gives  vision  through  the  vale  of  sorrow 
and  of  death.  And  the  common  intercourse  is 
the  perfect  freedom  which  is  bred  of  high  alle- 
giance to  inborn  courtesy  and  honor. 

"What  living  link  is  there  that  joins  these 
worlds  together,  and  gives  vital  meaning  to  the 
confirmation  of  brotherhood  spoken  in  the  divine 
words  of  the  Apostle :  "  We,  being  many,  are 
one  body  in  Christ,  and  everyone  members  one 
of  another? " 

Pondering  this  mystery  I  fall  asleep,  and  so 
ends  my  first  day  in  the  army  of  the  unemployed. 


CHAPTEK  H 

LIVING  BY  ODD  JOBS 

No.  —  BLUB  ISLAND  AVENUE,  CHICAGO, 
Saturday,  December  19,  1891. 

WHEN  life  is  lived  in  its  simplest  terms,  one 
is  brought  to  marvellous  intimacy  with  vital  proc- 
esses. And  through  this  intimacy  no  disclosure 
is  more  wonderful  than  that  of  nature's  quick 
response.  Exhausted  by  hard  labor,  until  your 
muscles  quiver  in  impotent  loss  of  energy,  you 
sit  down  to  eat  and  drink,  and  rise  up  to  the  play 
of  a  physical  revival  wherein  you  are  renewed  by 
the  mystery  of  intussusception,  and  your  respon- 
sive mood  quickens  to  the  tension  of  the  involution 
whence  life's  energies  flow  new  and  fresh  again. 
Another  hour  may  bring  as  great  a  change,  and 
the  full  tide  of  your  rising  spirits  may  set  swiftly 
back.  It  is  as  though  you  were  a  little  child 
once  more,  and  your  moods  obedient  to  little 
things. 

When  living  is  a  daily  struggle  with  the  prob- 
lems of  what  you  shall  eat  and  what  you  shall 
drink,  and  wherewithal  you  shall  be  clothed,  you 
40 


LIVING  BY   ODD   JOBS  41 

take  no  anxious  thought  for  the  morrow,  quite 
content  to  let  the  morrow  take  thought  for  the 
things  of  itself,  for  sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the 
evil  thereof.  Your  heart  will  leap  with  hope  at 
any  brightening  of  your  lot,  and  will  sink  in  deep 
despair  when  the  way  grows  dark.  The  road  of 
your  salvation  is  by  the  strait  gate  and  the  narrow 
way  of  courage  and  persistent  effort  and  provi- 
dent foresight,  and  whence  are  these  to  come  to 
you  whose  courage  is  born  of  warmth  and  a 
square  meal,  and  whose  despair  comes  with  re- 
turning hunger?  A  world  all  bright  with  hope 
can  be  had  on  the  terms  of  heat  and  food,  and 
the  sense  of  these  can  be  induced  for  a  nickel  in 
a  "  barrel-house." 

When  Clark  and  I  awakened  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, after  our  first  night  in  the  station,  the  dull 
gray  dawn  was  dimming  the  gas,  and  in  the  lurid 
light  we  could  see  a  writhing  movement  in  the 
prostrate  coiling  mass  of  reeking  humanity  about 
us.  We  had  lost  the  feeling  of  hunger,  but  a 
feverish  thirst  was  burning  to  the  roots  of  our 
tongues.  We  could  scarcely  move  for  the  pain 
of  sore  and  stiffened  muscles,  and  I  thought  at 
first  that  my  right  leg  was  paralyzed  from  the 
night-watchman's  kick.  Only  a  few  hours  be- 
fore, we  had  entered  the  station-house  from  the 
streets  in  eager  willingness  for  any  escape  from 


42  THE   WORKERS 

their  cold  exposure,  and  now  with  intensified  de- 
sire we  longed  for  the  outer  air  at  any  cost  of 
hardship. 

But  we  were  not  free  to  go  out  at  once.  The 
officer  on  duty  brusquely  ordered  us  back  among 
the  men  when  we  approached  him  with  a  request 
to  be  allowed  to  leave.  We  were  greeted  with  a 
burst  of  mocking  glee  as  we  walked  back  to  our 
places,  and  among  the  comments  was  a  call  to  me : 
"  What  have  you  pinched,  whiskers?  " 

The  reason  for  the  delay  wTas  soon  apparent, 
for  in  a  few  moments  we  were  all  marched  down 
the  main  corridor  and  into  the  passage  which 
opened  nearest  to  the  registrar's  desk.  There  we 
waited,  closely  huddled,  the  iron  door  locked  upon 
us,  while  an  examination  was  made  as  to  whether 
any  of  the  prisoners  had  been  robbed.  When  all 
was  reported  right,  the  door  was  unlocked  and  we 
were  allowed  to  file  slowly  out  past  the  entrance 
of  the  kitchen.  There  stood  the  cook  with  an 
assistant,  and  he  gave  to  each  man  as  he  passed  a 
bowl  of  steaming  coffee  and  a  piece  of  bread.  We 
drank  the  coffee  at  a  gulp,  and  each  man  was  eat- 
ing bread  with  wolfish  bites  as  he  climbed  the 
steps  and  walked  out  into  the  street. 

Every  succeeding  breath  in  the  outer  air 
seemed  to  carry  its  cleansing  coolness  farther 
down  into  our  lungs.  It  was  like  the  feeling  of 


LIVING   BY   ODD  JOBS  43 

cold  water  to  a  parched  throat.  The  sky  was  over- 
cast, but  the  storm  had  ceased,  and  the  temper- 
ature had  fallen  to  several  degrees  of  frost,  and 
this  gave  a  freshness  and  vigor  to  the  air  which, 
brightened  the  world  for  us  amazingly. 

We  could  walk  dry-shod  in  the  measure  that 
we  could  walk  at  all.  Clark  was  rather  stiff  at 
the  start,  and  I  could  make  scarcely  any  progress 
alone,  but  Clark  generously  lent  me  a  shoulder, 
and  his  arm  was  frequently  around  me  at  the 
street  crossings.  All  this  was  most  naturally 
done.  The  thought  of  deserting  me  because  I 
had  gone  lame  seemed  never  to  occur  to  him.  He 
must  have  known  that  his  own  good  chances  were 
seriously  lessened  by  his  having  me  upon  his 
hands,  but  he  accepted  this  as  though  it  were  in- 
evitable. There  was  no  mawkish  sympathy  in 
his  manner;  he  was  in  for  practical  helpfulness 
only,  and  now  and  again  he  would  withdraw  his 
support,  and,  standing  off,  would  watch  me  exe- 
cute his  command:  "  Now  take  a  brace,  partner, 
and  let's  see  you  go  it  alone." 

At  Van  Buren  Street  we  turned  to  the  Rock 
Island  Railway  station,  and  in  the  waiting-room 
we  quenched  our  thirst  as  best  we  could  at  the 
drinking-fountain.  Many  of  the  men  had  taken 
the  direction  of  South  Clark  Street.  I  asked 
Clark  why. 


44  THE   WORKERS 

"  There's  barrel-houses  down  there,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

The  word  had  come  upon  me  repeatedly  in  the 
last  day,  with  only  a  dim  suggestion  of  its  mean- 
ing, and  so  I  owned  to  my  ignorance. 

"A  barrel-house?"  said  Clark.  "That's  a 
dive  where  they  keep  cheap  whiskey  on  tap ;  you 
can  get  a  pint  for  a  nickel.  It's  about  the  size 
of  the  whiskey  you  want  for  the  thirst  you  get  in 
a  station-house,  I'm  thinking,"  he  added.  And 
then  more  to  himself  than  to  me:  "  I'm  damned 
if  I  don't  wish  I  had  some  now  to  wash  that  air 
out  of  my  mouth." 

His  face  was  very  wry,  and  there  was  return- 
ing to  it  the  expression  of  hopelessness  which  it 
had  worn  while  we  crouched  for  shelter  in  the 
doorway  on  the  night  before.  It  cut  you  to  the 
quick.  His  light-blue  eyes,  which  had  drawn 
me  from  the  first  by  the  honest  directness  of  their 
gaze,  now  began  to  lose  their  human,  speaking 
quality  and  to  take  on  the  dumb,  beseeching  look 
of  a  hunted  beast. 

The  bread  and  coffee  and  clean  air  had  revived 
us  both.  I  dreaded  a  swift  relapse,  and  so  I  urged 
a  wash,  in  the  hope  of  its  bracing  effect.  But 
where  could  we  achieve  this  simple  need?  Cer- 
tainly not  in  the  wash-room  of  the  station,  for  we 
had  trespassed  dangerously  far  in  drinking  at  the 


LIVING  BY   ODD  JOBS  45 

fountain,  and  the  eye  of  more  than  one  employee 
was  already  upon  us.  There  was  no  hotel  into 
whose  public  lavatory  we  could  pass  unchal- 
lenged, and  not  so  much  upon  Clark's  account  as 
upon  mine.  There  remained  the  open  lake;  so 
we  walked  up  Van  Buren  Street  and  across  the 
Lake  Park  and  the  railway  tracks  to  the  edge  of 
the  outer  harbor.  Here  we  knelt  among  the 
broken  fragments  of  ice  and  bathed  our  faces  and 
hands.  It  was  vigorous  exercise  to  rub  them  dry 
before  they  chapped  in  the  winter  wind.  It 
warmed  us,  and  the  feeling  of  relative  cleanness 
was  enheartening.  And  then  I  sat  down  and 
dipped  up  water  in  one  hand  and  applied  it,  until 
I  had  a  cold  saturated  cushion  against  the  bruise 
on  my  leg.  This  wrought  wonderful  relief  until 
the  wet  cloth  froze,  and  then  it  chafed  the  bruise 
badly  for  a  time. 

But  I  could  walk  alone  and  fairly  well  now. 
"We  turned  up  Michigan  Avenue  and  followed  it 
to  the  river,  discussing,  as  we  went,  a  plan  of 
action.  Clark  was  for  going  at  once  to  the  far 
Xorth  Side  in  search  of  employment  at  various 
iron-works  and  foundries  there,  of  whose  exist- 
ence he  had  learned.  I  longed  for  the  means  of 
early  relief  from  the  reviving  pangs  of  hunger 
through  some  chance  job  which  I  hoped  that  we 
might  obtain.  This  was  a  new  idea  to  Clark. 


46  THE   WORKERS 

He  was  a  raw  recruit  in  the  army  of  the  unem- 
ployed. That  he  might  look  for  other  work  than 
that  which  was  in  the  line  of  his  trade  had  not 
yet  presented  itself  to  him  as  a  possibility.  He 
shrank  from  it  with  the  instinctive  dislike  of  a 
conservative  for  a  new  way.  And  all  our  early 
essays  confirmed  him  in  his  aversion.  We  went 
from  door  to  door  of  the  great  wholesale  business 
houses  at  the  head  of  Michigan  Avenue.  Large 
delivery  trucks  stood  lined  up  along  the  curb  on 
both  sides,  and  there  was  the  bustle  across  the 
pavement  of  much  loading  and  unloading  of 
wares.  Workmen  in  leather  aprons  were  hand- 
ling packed  boxes  with  the  swiftness  and  dexterity 
of  long  practice.  At  half  a  score  of  houses  we 
sought  out  an  overseer  or  a  superintendent  and 
asked  to  be  set  to  work;  but,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation  in  a  single  case,  we  were  told,  with 
varying  degrees  of  emphasis,  that  we  were  not 
needed,  not  even  for  some  chance,  exceptional 
demand. 

It  is  difficult  to  describe  the  discouragement 
which  results  from  such  an  experience.  All 
about  you  is  the  tumultuous  industry  of  a  great 
city.  You  feel  something  of  the  splendid  power 
of  its  ceaseless  productivity ;  you  guess  at  its  vast 
consuming;  and  in  the  din  of  its  noisy  traffic  you 
watch  the  swift  shuttles  which  weave  the  varied 


LIVING   BY   ODD  JOBS  47 

fabric  of  its  business.  Its  complexities  and 
interdependencies  bear  down  upon  you  with 
an  inspiring  sense  of  the  volume  of  human  life 
spent  in  ministering  to  life.  Its  multitudes 
throng  you  upon  the  streets,  and  you  read  in 
countless  faces  the  story  of  unending  struggle 
to  keep  abreast  with  pressing  duty.  Work? 
Everywhere  about  you  there  is  work,  stupendous, 
appalling,  cumulative  in  its  volume  and  intensity 
with  the  increasing  momentum  of  a  world-wide 
trade,  which  is  driven  by  the  natural  forces  of 
demand  and  supply  and  keenest  competition. 
Men  everywhere  are  staggering  under  burdens 
too  grievous  to  be  borne.  And  here  are  you  idle, 
yet  counting  it  the  greatest  boon  if  you  might 
but  add  your  strength  to  the  mighty  struggle. 

Is  there  then  no  demand  for  labor?  There  is 
most  importunate,  insatiable  demand  for  all  work 
of  finer  skilfulness,  for  all  men  who  can  assume 
responsibility  and  give  new  efficiency  to  produc- 
tive forces,  or  direct  them  into  channels  for  the 
development  of  new  wealth.  But  in  the  presence 
of  this  demand  Clark  and  I  stood  asking  hire  for 
the  potential  physical  energies  of  two  hungry 
human  bodies,  and,  standing  so,  we  were  but  two 
units  in  a  like  multitude  of  unemployed. 

When  we  reached  the  river  I  had  difficulty  in 
dissuading  Clark  from  his  confirmed  resolve  to 


48  THE   WORKERS 

pass  on  to  the  North  Side  in  pursuit  of  his  earlier 
plan.  He  had  no  thought  of  leaving  me  behind. 
He  urged  that  a  chance  job  was  as  probable  along 
his  route  as  any  other.  But  he  consented  at  last 
to  another  hour  of  search  in  the  immediate  vicin- 
ity. 

We  were  in  South  Water  Street;  we  walked 
west  until  we  had  crossed  State  and  had  come  to 
the  corner  of  Dearborn  Street.  Walking  became 
increasingly  difficult,  for  the  pavements  were 
piled  high  with  boxes  and  barrels  and  crates  full 
of  all  manner  of  fruits  and  vegetables,  and 
wooden  coops  packed  with  live  game  and  poultry. 
A  narrow  passage  remained  between  the  piles. 
Through  this  we  picked  our  way,  carefully  avoid- 
ing empty  boxes  and  hand-trucks  and  stray  meas- 
ures that  lay  strewn  about.  On  each  side  of  the 
street  buildings  of  brick  or  stone,  fairly  uniform 
in  height,  rose  four-storied  and  many  windowed, 
with  the  monotony  of  their  straight  lines  relieved 
by  the  curves  of  arched  windows,  each  bearing  a 
protruding  keystone.  Over  the  wide  fronts  of 
the  shops  sagged  awnings  in  various  stages  of 
faded  color  and  unrepair,  their  iron  frames  lying 
uncovered  and  unsightly  against  the  fluted  can- 
vas. Along  both  curbs  were  backed  continuous 
rows  of  drays  and  trucks  and  market-wagons. 
The  two  lines  of  horses  stood  blanketed  in  the 


LIVING   BY   ODD   JOBS.  49 

cold,  facing  each  other  across  a  narrow  opening 
down  the  stone-paved  street,  and  more  than  any- 
thing else  they  resembled  lines  of  picketed 
cavalry. 

We  soon  felt  the  friction  of  the  crowd  as  it 
steered  its  devious  course  along  the  littered  pave- 
ment, brushing  against  groups  of  purchasers  who 
stood  examining  sample  wares,  and  against  idlers 
leaning  to  the  doorposts  with  hands  in  their  trou- 
sers' pockets,  and  through  the  cross  currents  of 
drivers  and  shopmen  who  busily  took  on  or  dis- 
charged the  loads. 

The  very  confusion  and  hurry  of  the  scene, 
while  they  suggested  the  chance  of  work,  were 
really  an  added  embarrassment  to  our  search. 
More  than  under  other  circumstances  we  shrank 
from  asking  employment  from  men  hard  driven 
by  the  "  instant  need  of  things."  And  this  in- 
stinctive feeling  was  fully  justified  in  the  course 
of  the  actual  quest.  Of  common  hands  there  was 
an  abundance,  and  ours,  held  out  for  sale,  were 
of  the  nature  of  a  provocation  to  men  cumbered 
by  complex  care.  Occasionally  we  could  not  get 
access  to  an  employer;  and  when  we  did,  we 
sometimes  received  a  civil  "  no,"  but  commonly 
an  emphatic  one  in  a  vent  of  evil  temper. 

At  one  moment  an  old  gentleman  was  looking 
up  at  us  over  the  tops  of  his  spectacles  as  we  stood 


60  THE   WORKERS 

at  the  foot  of  his  desk.  There  was  much  shrewd- 
ness in  his  eye,  and  his  face  was  deeply  lined,  but 
his  speech  revealed  the  frankness  of  a  courteous 
nature. 

"  No,  I'm  sorry,"  he  was  saying,  "  I'm  sorry 
that  I  can  give  you  nothing  to  do.  The  fact  is, 
I've  got  to  lay  off  three  men  at  the  end  of  the 
week.  My  business  don't  warrant  my  keeping 
them.  I  hope  you'll  be  more  fortunate  else- 
where." 

A  minute  later  we  were  standing  waiting 
for  the  attention  of  a  square-shouldered,  thick- 
necked  dealer  who  was  in  angry  dispute  with  a 
subordinate.  His  face  was  still  distorted  when 
he  turned  upon  us,  and  his  dilating  eyes  sought 
mine  with  an  expression  of  growing  impa- 
tience. 

"  "We  are  looking  for  a  job,  sir,"  I  began. 
"  Can  you  give  us  a  chance  to  work?  " 

"  No,  I  can't, you!  Out  you  go,  now!  " 

And  then  to  a  man  near  the  door:  " your 

soul,  Kelly,  I've  told  you  to  keep  these  bums  out 
of  here.  If  you  let  in  another  one  I'll  fire  you, 
as  sure  as  hell." 

The  hour  was  nearly  up,  and  there  was  appar- 
ently nothing  for  it  but  to  start  north  in  accord- 
ance with  Clark's  plan  and  in  hope  of  better  fort- 
une. I  felt  as  though  I  could  not  go.  I  was 


"OUT   YOU   GO,   NOW." 


LIVING   BY   ODD  JOBS  61 

fairly  faint  with  hunger,  and  a  curious  light- 
headedness  had  possessed  me.  The  sights  and 
sounds  about  us  took  on  a  strange  unreality,  and 
I  could  not  rid  myself  of  the  feeling  of  moving 
and  speaking  in  a  dream.  Again  and  again  I  was 
conscious  of  a  repetition  of  identical  experience, 
recalling  the  same  circumstances  in  some  faint- 
ly remembered  past,  and  even  before  I  spoke  at 
times,  I  had  an  eerie  sense  of  having  uttered  the 
coming  sentences  before  under  precisely  similar 
conditions.  The  one  fact  to  which  consciousness 
held  with  unshaken  certainty  was  the  strong 
craving  for  food.  And  this  was  not  so  much  a 
positive  pain,  as  it  was  a  sickening,  benumbing 
influence.  My  hand  would  all  but  go  out  in 
reach  for  fruit  that  lay  exposed  about  me,  and 
the  thought  that  the  act  would  be  wrong,  and 
would  get  me  into  trouble,  followed  the  impulse 
afar,  and  was  forced  into  action  as  a  checking 
conviction  by  a  distinct  effort  of  the  will. 

We  turned  into  one  shop  more.  The  pave- 
ment in  front  was  heaped  with  crates  packed  with 
oranges,  and  bound  around  the  centre  and  the 
ends  with  iron  bands.  Three  high  they  stood  on 
end,  and  four  and  five  in  a  row  along  the  curb, 
while  backed  up  against  them  were  two  empty 
trucks  with  slats  sloping  capaciously  at  the 
sides. 


62  THE   WORKERS 

There  was  confusion  within  the  shop.  A 
dealer  and  two  drivers  were  swearing  loudly, 
each  on  a  line  of  independent  grievance.  Two 
or  three  shopmen  were  bustling  about  in  zealous 
execution  of  orders.  Men  who  may  have  been 
customers  were  waiting  impatiently  for  attention, 
and  clerks  added  to  the  confusion  as  with  papers 
in  hand  they  passed  quickly  in  and  out  of  offices 
at  the  rear.  It  appeared  the  most  unpromising 
place  for  us  that  we  had  entered,  and  we  were 
prepared  for  a  refusal  more  than  commonly  em- 
phatic, when  to  our  almost  overwhelming  sur- 
prise the  dealer  hailed  us: 

"  Say,  you  men,  do  you  want  a  job?  Go  out 
and  load  them  oranges,  and  I'll  give  you  fifty 
cents  apiece." 

We  did  not  stagger  nor  clasp  each  other's 
hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  relief;  we  simply  turned 
without  a  word,  and  hurrying  to  the  street,  we 
began  to  lift  the  heavy  crates  into  the  box  of  an 
empty  truck. 

Clark  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Fifty  cents,  partner,  fifty  cents!  "  he  kept 
repeating  in  an  awed  undertone.  He  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  get  firm  hold  of  the  fact  of  our  al- 
most incredible  good  fortune,  and  then,  in  a  voice 
that  was  thick  with  a  heaving  sob,  he  said: 

"  We'll  feed,  partner,  we'll  feed  !  " 


LIVING  BY   ODD  JOBS  53 

But  we  did  not  "feed"  at  once  when  the 
money  was  actually  in  our  possession.  The  first 
load  had  gone  fairly  well,  for  the  certain  prospect 
of  food  nerved  us  to  such  a  degree  that,  weakened 
though  we  were,  we  scarcely  felt  the  effort  of 
loading,  and  we  were  quite  unaware  that  our 
bare  hands  were  being  scratched  by  the  sharp 
ends  of  iron  bands  about  the  boxes  until  we  felt 
the  flow  of  blood.  But  before  the  second  load 
was  half  on,  our  nerve  began  to  fail  us.  Each 
succeeding  crate  went  on  board  with  a  greater 
effort.  And  the  task  itself  grew  harder,  as  the 
tiers  of  boxes  rose  higher  in  the  truck.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  driver  would  never  be  satisfied 
with  the  load;  but  at  last  he  called  a  halt,  and, 
mounting  his  seat,  drove  off  in  the  direction  in 
which  the  other  truck  had  gone. 

We  were  paid  at  once,  Clark  a  half-dollar  coin 
and  I  two  silver  quarters.  We  held  our  money 
with  the  grip  of  drowning  men  upon  a  saving 
support.  We  sat  down  upon  a  doorstep  to  rest. 
We  were  panting  hard,  and  the  circles  under 
Clark's  eyes  had  grown  darker,  and  his  thin 
bloodless  lips  were  quivering  as  with  cold.  But 
his  spirits  were  rising,  and  his  eyes  grew  brighter 
every  moment,  and  his  pale  face,  already  flushed 
with  exercise,  glowed  again  with  the  pleasure  of 
anticipating  the  sure  breaking  of  our  fast. 


64  THE   WORKERS 

When  we  set  off,  Clark  was  in  the  full  swing 
of  a  provident  plan. 

"  There's  lots  of  saloons,"  he  said,  "  where  you 
can  get  a  free  lunch  with  a  glass  of  beer."  And 
he  began  to  point  them  out  to  me  along  our  route. 
Large  signs  in  front  competed  for  the  drifting 
trade.  On  one  was  painted  a  huge  schooner 
brimming  over  with  frothing  beer,  and  it  bore 
the  legend :  "  The  largest  glass  of  beer  for  five 
cents  in  Chicago."  Another  sign  claimed  for  its 
shop,  "  The  best  free  lunch  in  the  city,"  and 
others  told  of  hot  sausages  with  every  drink,  or 
a  certain  number  of  oysters  in  any  style,  or  hot 
stews  at  choice,  and  bread  and  cold  meats  and 
cheese  in  unstinted  abundance. 

All  this  so  exactly  met  our  needs.  And  there 
were  warmth  and  shelter  and  companionship 
within  the  saloons,  and  having  drunk  at  the  bar 
and  eaten  at  the  free-lunch  counter,  we  should 
be  free  to  sit  at  ease  about  the  fire.  And  how 
cheap  it  all  was!  For  fifteen  cents,  Clark  was 
saying,  we  could  get  three  fair  meals  a  day,  and 
even  ten  cents  would  save  us  from  the  actual  pain 
of  hunger.  There  was  no  other  chance  that  com- 
pared with  this.  The  utmost  that  five  cents 
would  buy  in  the  cheapest  eating-houses  was  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  two  small  rolls.  There  were 
ten-cent  meals  to  be  had,  but  they  were  not  the 


"WE'LL  FEED,  PARTNER,  WE'LL  FEED. 


LIVING   BY   ODD  JOBS  55 

equals  of  a  free  lunch  and  a  glass  of  beer.  To  get 
their  equivalent  in  a  restaurant  you  must  spend 
fifteen  cents  at  least. 

My  objections  were  wholly  unintelligible  to 
Clark.  From  these  he  would  bring  the  argument 
back  to  the  question  of  wise  management,  and 
there  he  had  me.  Presently  he  lost  his  temper, 
and  told  me  that  I  was  a  "  damn  fool,"  and  that 
I  might  go  "  to  a  restaurant,  or  to  hell,"  as  I 
chose,  but  that  for  his  part  he  was  going  in  for 
a  free  lunch  and  a  glass  of  beer.  But  before  we 
separated  he  was  so  far  pacified  that  he  agreed 
to  meet  me  in  the  early  evening  in  front  of  the 
shop  where  we  had  earned  our  money. 

It  was  at  the  juncture  of  Dearborn  and  Madi- 
son Streets  that  we  parted.  Not  far  from  there 
I  found  a  restaurant  whose  placards  in  the  win- 
dows offered  tempting  dishes  at  astonishingly 
cheap  rates.  "  Roast  beef  and  baked  potato,  fif- 
teen cents,"  was  printed  on  the  one  that  lured 
me  most.  I  walked  inside  and  sat  down  at  a 
small  round  table,  spread  with  a  cloth  which  was 
faultlessly  clean.  A  long  line  of  such  tables 
reached  down  the  centre  of  the  deep  room  in  in- 
viting whiteness,  and  was  flanked  on  each  side 
by  a  row  of  others,  oblong  in  shape,  pressed  close 
in  against  the  walls.  To  a  height  of  several  feet 
ah'we  these  tables  the  walls  were  wainscoted  with 


66  THE  WORKERS 

mirrors,  and  the  white  ceiling  was  gay  with  paper 
festoons.  Customers  were  streaming  in,  for  it 
was  about  noon.  Most  of  these  were  evidently 
men  from  neighboring  business  houses,  but  there 
were  workmen,  too,  some  of  them  in  blue  jeans; 
and  the  first  fear  that  I  felt  at  entering,  the  fear 
of  having  come  to  a  place  too  respectable  to  ac- 
cept me  as  a  guest,  vanished  completely,  and  gave 
place  to  a  feeling  of  security  and  comfort. 

A  corps  of  colored  waiters  were  hurrying 
through  the  narrow  passages  between  the  tables, 
bearing  aloft  tin  trays  heaped  with  dishes;  to 
the  noisy  clatter  and  hum  of  the  diners,  they 
added  a  babel  of  discordant  sound  as  they  shouted 
in  unintelligible  phrase  their  varying  orders  into 
the  dim  regions  at  the  rear,  whence  answered  a 
muffled  echo  to  each  call. 

My  order  came  in  a  deep  dinner-plate,  a  slice 
of  roast  beef,  generous  and  juicy,  shading  from 
brown  to  the  rich,  raw  red  of  the  centre  that 
oozed  with  a  strengthening  flow.  With  it  was  a 
large  baked  potato,  piping  hot,  and  when  I 
broke  it  upon  the  table  with  a  blow  of  my  fist, 
the  fragrant  steam  rose  in  a  cloud  to  my  face. 

At  the  end  of  a  fast  of  thirty-six  hours,  which 
had  been  relieved  only  by  a  few  swallows  of 
coffee  and  a  little  bread,  I  knew  enough  to  eat 
slowly.  But  I  was  unprepared  for  the  difficulty 


LIVING  BY  ODD  JOBS  57 

which  this  precaution  involved.  As  when  one 
swallows  cautiously  in  quenching  a  consuming 
thirst,  and  checks  by  sheer  force  the  muscles 
which  would  drink  with  choking  draughts,  so  it 
was  only  by  a  sustained  restraint  that  I  ate  care- 
fully, in  small  morsels,  until  the  brutish  hunger 
was  appeased.  And  when  all  the  beef  and  po- 
tato, and  an  amazing  quantity  of  the  bread,  with 
which  the  table  was  abundantly  supplied,  were 
gone,  I  could  not  forego  the  expenditure  of  five 
cents  more  for  a  cup  of  coffee,  by  the  aid  of 
which  another  deep  inroad  upon  the  bread  was 
soon  accomplished. 

At  the  desk  where  I  paid  the  amount  stamped 
upon  a  check  which  the  waiter  had  left  at  my 
place,  I  inquired  for  the  manager.  When  I  re- 
ceived his  assurance  that  he  could  give  me  no 
work  as  a  dishwasher,  nor,  in  fact,  in  any  capacity 
in  his  restaurant,  and  that  he  knew  of  no  opening 
for  me  anywhere,  I  walked  out  into  the  streets 
once  more  and  found  my  way  to  the  public  read- 
ing-room of  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Associ- 
ation. There  I  looked  through  the  advertising 
columns  of  the  morning  newspapers.  Of  appli- 
cations for  positions  there  was  an  almost  count- 
less number,  but  of  openings  offered  there  were 
few,  and  not  one  of  these  was  promising  to  a  man 
whose  only  resource  was  unskilled  labor.  Read- 


08  THE   WOBKERS 

ing  on  somewhat  aimlessly  through  the  day's 
news  I  presently  fell  asleep,  and  was  soon  awak- 
ened by  a  young  secretary,  who  was  shaking  me 
vigorously  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Wake  up,  my  man,  wake  up !  "  he  was  say- 
ing. "  You  can't  sleep  in  here.  You  must  keep 
awake,  or  go  out." 

I  went  out.  It  was  easier  to  keep  awake  in  the 
streets  than  in  that  warm  room,  and  besides,  I 
must  not  slacken  the  search  for  work. 

By  the  time  that  I  had  fully  recovered  posses- 
sion of  my  senses  I  found  that  an  aimless  walk 
had  taken  me  near  to  the  railway  station,  at  whose 
fountain  Clark  and  I  had  drunk  in  the  morning. 
A  crowd  of  newly  arrived  passengers  was  issuing 
into  Van  Buren  Street,  many  of  them  carrying 
hand-luggage.  With  a  flash  of  association  there 
came  to  my  mind  the  recollection  of  the  boys  and 
men  who  follow  you  persistently  on  Cortlandt 
Street  between  the  Pennsylvania  station  and  the 
elevated  railway,  with  importunate  offers  to  carry 
your  bag  for  a  dime.  I  wondered  that  this  indus- 
try had  not  occurred  to  me  before  as  a  resource 
in  my  present  need. 

In  a  moment  I  was  plying  it  with  high  hope  of 
success,  but  in  the  next  I  stood  agape  at  a  fierce 
onslaught  of  street  Arabs  and  men.  One  or  two 
had  picked  up  stones  with  which  they  menaced 


LIVING   BY   ODD  JOBS  59 

me.  All  of  them  were  shouting  oaths  and  violent 
abuse,  and  one  half -grown  boy,  who  was  the  first 
to  reach  me,  held  a  clenched  fist  to  my  face,  as  he 
screamed  hoarsely  profane  threats,  and  his  keen 
dark  eyes  blazed  with  anger,  and  his  lean  face 
worked  convulsively  in  the  strength  of  violent 
passion.  It  appeared  that  I  had  trespassed  upon 
a  field  which  was  pre-empted  by  a  "  ring  "  well- 
organized  for  its  possession  and  cultivation,  and 
for  the  further  purpose  of  excluding  competition. 

I  fell  back  to  a  safe  distance.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street  I  saw  a  gentleman  carrying  a 
heavy  portmanteau.  He  was  well  past  the  beat 
of  the  organized  ring  about  the  station.  In  an 
instant  I  was  beside  him,  and  was  offering  to 
carry  his  load.  He  seemed  disinclined  to  pay 
any  heed  at  first,  but  he  stopped  in  a  moment 
with  the  remark: 

"  I'll  give  you  a  quarter  to  carry  this  bag  to  my 
hotel." 

I  assented  joyfully.  I  swung  the  bag  to  my 
shoulder,  and  passed  on  ahead,  while  the  traveller 
walked  close  behind  me  in  the  crowd,  and  di- 
rected me  to  his  hotel  in  Wabash  Avenue,  where, 
together  with  what  I  already  had,  I  was  soon 
fifty-five  cents  to  the  good. 

That  afternoon  yielded  nothing  more  either  in 
prospect  of  a  steady  job  or  in  the  fruit  of  chance 


60  THE   WORKERS 

employment,  and  at  dusk  I  stood  again  in  South 
Water  Street  anxiously  awaiting  Clark's  return. 
It  was  dark  when  he  came  at  last,  and  as  he  ap- 
proached me  in  the  fierce  light  of  the  electric  arc 
which  gleamed  from  the  top  of  the  high  iron  post 
near  by,  I  could  see  that  he  was  paler  and  more 
careworn,  and  deeply  dejected.  We  sat  down  for 
a  few  moments  upon  a  doorstep.  The  street  was 
nearly  deserted,  and  the  lights  shone  dismally 
through  its  blackened  length.  Clark  began  to 
tell  me  of  his  afternoon.  No  chance  of  work  had 
been  revealed  beyond  the  vague  suggestion  of 
one  boss  that  he  might  need  an  extra  man  in  a 
week  or  two.  Moreover  Clark  had  found  the 
shops  so  far  away  that  he  had  been  obliged,  both 
in  his  going  and  return,  to  take  a  Lincoln  Avenue 
cable-car,  and  so  was  out  a  fruitless  ten  cents  in 
fare.  He  said  very  little  beyond  the  bare  state- 
ment of  his  afternoon's  experience.  He  was  sit- 
ting with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  with 
his  hands  clasped,  and  his  flaxen  head  bowed  al- 
most to  his  arms.  I  knew  that  he  was  struggling 
with  thoughts  and  feelings  which  he  could  not 
analyze,  nor  in  the  least  express,  and  I  waited  in 
silence  beside  him. 

The  whole  experience  was  new  to  him.  He 
had  been  out  of  work  before,  but  he  had  had  a 
home,  and  in  its  shelter  he  could  tide  over  the  de- 


LIVING   BY   ODD   JOBS.  61 

pression  which  had  cost  him  his  job.  Now  his 
home  was  gone,  and  he  was  adrift  without  sup- 
port. But  he  was  young  and  strong  and  accus- 
tomed to  work,  and  all  that  he  sought  was  a 
chance  to  win  his  way.  And  yet  his  very  strug- 
gles for  a  footing  seemed  to  sink  him  into  deeper 
difficulty.  The  conditions  which  he  was  forced 
to  face  seemed  to  conspire  against  the  possibility 
of  his  success. 

It  was  the  feeling  inspired  by  this  seeming 
truth,  a  dim,  dull  feeling  vaguely  realized,  yet 
awful,  that  bore  hard  upon  him,  and  that  loomed 
portentous  as  with  remorseless  fate.  He  was 
struggling  with  it  in  an  agony  of  helpless  dis- 
couragement, and  presently  he  found  utterance 
for  it  in  concrete  form. 

"  One  boss  I  struck  for  a  job,  I  thought  he  was 
going  to  give  it  to  me  sure,"  he  said.  "  He  asked 
me  where  I'd  worked  before,  and  why  I'd  quit, 
and  how  long  I'd  been  at  the  trade.  And  just 
then  I  felt  something  crawling  on  my  neck.  It 

was  a  crumb, it !  The  boss  seen  it,  too.  He 

got  mad, him!  and  he  chewed  a  rag,  and 

he  said  if  he  had  twenty  jobs,  he  wouldn't  give 
one  to  a  lousy  hobo  like  me."  Clark  was  grow- 
ing increasingly  vehement  in  his  recital.  He 
rose  to  his  feet  and  bent  over  me,  while  the  hot 
words  came  hissing  between  his  teeth: 


62  THE  WORKERS 

"  I  ain't  never  been  like  this  in  my  life  before, 
and,  great  God  Almighty!  I'd  be  clean  if  I 
could!  "  After  a  moment  he  added,  in  a  hard, 
clear  tone: 

"  We've  got  some  money,  partner,  let's  go  and 
get  a  drink." 

My  extra  quarter  flashed  into  my  mind  as  a 
hopeful  resource.  I  held  out  the  two  quarters 
and  a  nickel  on  the  palm  of  my  hand  where  the 
street  light  would  strike  them.  I  told  Clark  of 
my  windfall,  and  of  the  possible  chance  of  many 
another  such  to  help  us  out  in  the  future. 

"  I  earned  this  in  ten  minutes,"  I  said,  holding 
out  a  quarter,  "  and  I  know  where  twenty  cents 
of  it  will  buy  us  each  a  hot  stew  and  all  the  bread 
that  we  can  eat.  And  then  I've  found  a  lodging- 
house  in  South  Clark  Street  where  we  can  each 
get  a  wash  and  a  fairly  decent  bed  in  good  air  for 
fifteen  cents,  and  we'll  have  enough  left  to  keep 
us  in  food  to-morrow." 

Clark  hesitated.  I  enlarged  on  the  attractive- 
ness of  the  restaurant  and  the  comfort  of  eating 
at  leisure  at  one  of  its  clean  tables,  and  the  long, 
unbroken  rest  that  we  should  have  at  the  lodg- 
ings. Clark  was  tired  to  the  bone,  and  he  yielded. 
It  was  my  turn  now  to  give  him  a  shoulder  as  we 
walked  to  our  evening  meal. 
,  We  were  soon  seated  opposite  each  other  at  one 


LIVING  BY   ODD  JOBS.  63 

of  the  side  tables  of  the  restaurant.  The  lights 
were  reproduced  in  myriad  reflections  in  the  mir- 
rors, and  we  seemed  to  be  sitting  near  the  centre 
of  a  vast  dining-hall  with  multitudes  at  its  count- 
less tables  and  its  farther  portions  fading  in  the 
perspective  of  dim  distance.  The  Irish  stew  and 
bread  were  indescribably  good,  and  in  the  com- 
pany of  other  diners  we  felt  that  we  were  among 
our  fellow-men  and  of  them,  and  we  were  free 
for  the  time  from  the  torment  of  that  haunting 
isolation  which  keeps  one  unspeakably  lonely 
even  in  the  thronging  crowd. 

Light-hearted  and  full  of  hope  again  we 
walked  to  the  lodging-house,  and  after  a  wash  we 
were  soon  fast  asleep,  each  on  a  rough  cot  in  a 
wooden  closet,  the  electric  lights  streaming  in 
upon  us  through  the  wire  netting  which  was 
spread  over  the  tops  of  long  lines  of  such  sleep- 
ing booths,  that  stood  separated  by  thin  board 
partitions  like  the  bath-houses  at  the  sea. 

Friday  and  Saturday  came  and  passed  with 
the  same  vain  search  for  work,  and  with  varying 
fortune  in  odd  jobs.  We  took  separate  routes 
through  the  day,  but  always  agreed  at  parting 
upon  an  hour  and  place  of  meeting.  The  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association  rooms  became  our 
rendezvous.  When  we  met  there  on  Friday  even- 
ing I  had  a  quarter  and  Clark  was  high-spirited 


64  THE   WORKERS 

and  opulent  with  forty-five  cents  to  his  credit. 
He  was  full  of  his  good  fortune.  In  the  middle 
of  the  forenoon  he  had  chanced  upon  the  job  of 
shifting  coal  in  the  cellar  of  a  private  house. 
The  work  having  been  finished  he  was  allowed  to 
wash  himself  in  the  kitchen  with  an  abundance 
of  hot  water  and  soap  and  the  luxury  of  a  towel. 
And  then  he  sat  down  at  the  kitchen-table  to  a 
dinner  of  hot  turkey  and  cranberry-sauce,  and 
any  number  of  vegetables,  and  all  the  bread  and 
coffee  he  wanted,  and  finally  a  towering  saucer  of 
plum-pudding.  Fifty  cents  was  added  to  the 
dinner  in  payment  for  his  work,  and,  as  he  had 
had  a  dime  left  in  his  pocket  after  breakfast,  he 
did  not  hesitate  at  an  expenditure  of  fifteen  cents 
in  car-fare  to  facilitate  his  search  for  work. 

My  quarter  had  come,  as  on  the  day  before,  by 
way  of  a  porter's  service — only  this  time  from  a 
woman.  I  caught  sight  of  her  as  she  was  crossing 
the  Lake  Front  from  the  station  of  the  Illinois 
Central  Railroad  at  the  head  of  Randolph  Street. 
Under  her  left  arm  were  parcels  of  various  shapes 
and  sizes,  and  with  some  apparent  effort  she  car- 
ried a  bag  in  her  right  hand.  The  parcels  were 
troublesome,  for  now  and  again  she  was  obliged 
to  rest  the  bag  upon  the  pavement  until  she  had 
adjusted  her  arm  to  a  surer  hold  upon  them. 
She  was  a  woman  nearing  middle  life,  well 


LIVING  BY   ODD  JOBS  65 

dressed  in  warm,  comfortable,  winter  garments 
which  bore  the  general  marks  of  the  prevailing 
mode. 

So  completely  had  the  present  way  of  living 
possessed  me  that  I  fear  that  my  first  impulse  at 
sight  of  her  was  born  of  the  hope  of  a  porter's 
fee  and  not  of  the  thought  of  helpfulness.  But 
I  grew  more  interested  as  I  neared  her,  and  in- 
creasingly embarrassed.  There  was  a  touch  of 
beautiful  coloring  in  her  round,  full  face,  and 
about  the  mouth  was  an  expression  of  rare  sweet- 
ness, while  her  dark-blue  eyes  looked  out  through 
gold-rimmed  spectacles  with  preternatural  seri- 
ousness. But  my  eye  was  drawn  most  by  the 
hair  that  appeared  beneath  her  bonnet;  a  heavy 
mass  it  was,  and  tawny  red  like  that  of  Titian's 
"  Magdalene  "  in  the  Pitti.  She  might  have 
been  a  shopkeeper's  wife  come  to  the  city  from 
the  suburbs  or  from  some  provincial  village,  and 
she  was  nervous  in  the  noisy  atmosphere  of  the 
unfamiliar.  I  had  not  yet  offered  my  services  to 
a  woman  in  this  new  capacity  of  street  porter,  and 
I  found  myself  puzzled  as  to  how  I  should  ap- 
proach her.  But  the  actual  situation  solved  the 
difficulty,  for  when  we  were  but  a  few  steps  apart, 
her  bundles  fell  again  into  a  state  of  irritating  in- 
security under  her  arm  and  she  was  again  obliged 
to  adjust  them. 


66  THE  WORKERS 

Instantly  I  was  beside  her,  bowing,  hat  in 
hand: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madam;  won't  you  let 
me  help  you? " 

She  drew  back  and  looked  at  me  perplexed, 
and  I  could  see  the  gathering  alarm  in  her  wide, 
innocent,  serious  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no,  thanks!  "  she  said,  and  I  knew  that 
all  that  she  had  ever  heard  of  bunco-steerers  and 
of  the  wily  crafts  of  the  town  was  mingling  in 
terrifying  confusion  in  her  mind  with  thoughts 
of  possible  escape. 

My  distress  was  as  great  as  her  own.  I  had 
forgotten  for  the  moment  how  dismaying  to  a 
woman  must  be  an  unexpected  offer  of  service 
from  a  sudden  apparition  of  full  grown,  mascu- 
line, street  poverty.  I  felt  guilty  as  though  I  had 
wantonly  frightened  a  child.  A  parcel  had  fallen 
to  the  ground.  I  picked  it  up,  and  returned  it 
to  her  with  an  apology  most  spontaneous  and  sin- 
cere. But  as  I  turned  away  in  haste  to  escape 
from  the  embarrassment  of  the  situation,  I  found 
myself  checked  to  my  great  surprise  by  a  timid 
question:  "  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  the  shortest 
way  to  number  —  La  Salle  Street?  "  she  said. 

My  hat  was  off  at  once. 

"  It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  show  you 
the  way,"  I  replied,  and  not  waiting  for  a  refusal, 


SHE    DREW    HACK    AND    LOOKED    AT    ME    PERPLEXED. 


LIVING  BY   ODD  JOBS  67 

I  set  off  with,  "  Won't  you  follow  me,  pray  ? " 
over  my  shoulder. 

At  the  curb  of  the  first  crossing  I  waited  for 
her. 

"  Keep  close  to  me,"  I  said,  "  and  I'll  see  you 
safe  across  the  street."  But  I  ignored  the  parcels, 
which  were  once  more  awry.  On  the  opposite 
pavement  she  stopped. 

"  Would  you  mind  holding  my  bag,"  she 
asked,  "  while  I  get  a  better  grip  on  these  bun- 
dles? "  I  accepted  the  bag  with  an  assurance  of 
the  pleasure  that  it  gave  me.  It  was  soon  fol- 
lowed by  a  parcel,  the  largest  and  most  unwieldy 
of  the  lot.  She  finished  adjusting  the  others,  and 
then  extended  her  free  hand  for  the  remaining 
parcel. 

"  We'll  carry  this  between  us,"  I  said,  "  and 
I'll  walk  with  you  to  the  place." 

Without  a  word  of  demur  she  took  firm  hold 
of  the  stout  twine  with  which  the  parcel  was  tied, 
and  thus  linked  we  set  off  together  down  Kan- 
dolph  Street  to  La  Salle.  Conversation  was 
nearly  impossible,  for  we  were  edging  our  way 
for  the  most  part  along  crowded  pavements. 

When  we  stood  for  a  few  moments  at  a  cross- 
ing, waiting  for  a  check  in  the  tide  of  traffic,  she 
confided  to  me  that  she  had  come  to  Chicago  from 
" ville  "  to  see  a  lawyer. 


68  THE   WORKERS 

"  You  are  often  in  the  city,"  I  suggested,  de- 
lighted to  talk  on  the  pleasant,  easy  terms  which 
were  springing  up  between  us. 

"  Oh,  no!  I  ain't,"  she  said,  and  then  she  was 
innocently  superior  to  the  compliment  implied  in 
my  feigned  surprise,  and  she  began  to  question 
me  about  myself. 

"  What  do  you  do  for  a  living,  young  man?  " 

"  I  am  out  of  work,  and  I  am  looking  for  a 
job,"  I  said,  evasively. 

"  What  is  your  line  of  work?  "  she  continued; 
for  the  bucolic  mind  was  bent  on  a  sure  footing 
from  which  to  launch  out  into  further  inquiry. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  of  any  work  that  I  can  get,"  I 
said.  "  Any  work  at  all,"  I  reiterated,  thinking 
that  she  might  put  me  in  the  way  of  a  job. 

"  Where  do  you  live  when  you're  to  home?  " 
and  the  question  indicated  a  new  tack  in  the 
quest  for  certitude. 

"  I  came  out  here  from  the  East,"  I  answered; 
"  I  have  no  home  here." 

"  I  guess  you  ain't  been  doing  just  right,  or 
else  you  wouldn't  be  ashamed  to  tell,"  she  said, 
while  a  graver  look  came  into  her  sober  eyes. 

The  situation  was  so  keenly  delightful  that  I 
lacked  the  moral  strength  to  do  aught  but  pro- 
long it. 

"  Ah,  madam,  if  you  but  knew!  "  I  said,  and 


LIVING  BY   ODD   JOBS  69 

I  fear  that  my  tone  conveyed  to  her  a  tacit  con- 
fession of  deep  depravity. 

We  had  reached  the  required  number  in  La 
Salle  Street.  I  led  the  way  to  the  elevator,  and 
found  the  door  of  the  lawyer's  office.  The  wom- 
an stood  for  a  few  moments  in  the  passage;  I  was 
evidently  on  her  conscience. 

"  Haven't  you  got  any  family  or  friends?  "  she 
continued,  in  a  voice  tender  with  sympathy. 

"  I  had  both,"  I  replied. 

"  Then,  young  man,  you  take  my  advice,  and 
just  go  back  to  your  family,  and  tell  them  you're 
sorry  that  you  done  wrong,  and  you  mean  to  do 
better.  They'll  be  good  to  you  and  help  you." 
Her  words  were  swift  with  the  energy  of  convic- 
tion. 

"  I  am  sure  that  you  are  right,"  I  agreed. 

And  now  a  well-filled  open  purse  was  in  her 
hand,  and  I  saw  her  fingers  hesitating  among  some 
loose  coins.  Presently  she  held  out  a  quarter. 

"  You've  been  real  nice  to  me,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  want  to  ask  you  not  to  make  a  wrong  use  of  this 
money.  You'll  not  buy  liquor  with  it,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  will  not,"  I  assured  her.  "  I  have 
little  temptation  to  do  that,  for  I  can  quench  my 
thirst  for  nothing;  it  is  food  that  I  find  it  hard 
to  get.  And,  madam,"  I  continued,  "  I  am 
deeply  grateful  to  you  for  your  good  advice." 


70  THE   WORKERS 

She  smiled  upon  me,  her  pretty  mouth  and 
dimpled  cheeks  and  dark  blue  eyes  all  playing 
their  part  in  the  friendly  salutation. 

"  You  will  go  back  to  your  friends,  won't 
you  ?  "  she  said,  persuasively. 

"  I  will  indeed,"  I  replied.  "  Already  I  look 
forward  to  that  with  keenest  pleasure." 

Then  richer  by  a  quarter  and  all  aglow  with 
the  sense  of  human  sympathy  I  returned  to  the 
streets,  and  to  the  exhausting,  dreary  round  of 
place-hunting. 

That  this  in  itself  should  be  such  hard  work  is 
largely  due,  I  fancy,  to  the  double  strain,  both 
on  your  strength  and  on  your  sensibilities.  Cer- 
tainly it  is  strangely  enervating.  Even  when 
you  are  not  weakened  by  the  want  of  food,  you 
find  yourself  at  the  far  end  of  a  fruitless  search 
worn  out  beyond  the  exhaustion  of  a  hard  day's 
work.  And  then  the  actual  ground  covered  by 
your  most  persistent  effort  is  always  so  sadly  dis- 
appointing. You  may  begin  the  day's  hunt 
rested  and  fed  and  full  of  energy  and  re- 
solve; you  may  have  planned  the  search 
with  care,  taking  pains  to  find  out  the  various 
forms  of  unskilled  labor  which  are  employed 
within  the  chosen  area;  with  utmost  regard  to 
systematic,  time-saving  expenditure  of  energy, 
you  may  go  carefully  over  the  ground,  leaving  no 


LIVING  BY  ODD  JOBS  71 

stone  unturned;  and  yet,  at  the  day's  end,  you 
have  not  covered  half  the  area  of  your  careful 
plan,  and  your  whole  body  aches  with  weari- 
ness, and  your  heart  is  heavy  and  sore  within 
you.  Nor  does  the  task  grow  easier  with  long 
practice.  You  acquire  a  certain  facility  in 
search;  you  come,  by  practical  acquaintance,  to 
some  knowledge  of  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  labor 
market;  but  you  must  begin  each  day's  quest 
with  a  greater  draft  upon  your  courage  and  reso- 
lution. For  the  actual  barriers  grow  greater,  as 
the  outward  marks  of  your  mode  of  life  become 
clearer  upon  you,  and  you  feel  yourself  borne 
upon  a  tide  that  you  cannot  stem,  out  from  the 
haven  of  a  man's  work,  where  you  would  be,  to 
the  barren  wastes,  where  drift  to  certain  wreck 
the  lives  of  the  destitute  idle  who  have  lost  all 
hold  upon  a  "  sure  intent." 

All  the  days  of  this  vagrant  living  were  not 
equally  hard.  Some  were  harder  than  others. 
Saturday  was  a  case  in  point.  After  an  early 
frugal  breakfast,  for  which  Clark  paid  his  last 
penny,  we  separated  with  an  agreement  to  meet 
again  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  in  the  reading- 
room  of  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Association. 
We  were  bent  on  different  quests.  Clark  was 
determined  to  find  work  at  his  trade  if  he  could, 
and  I  had  no  choice  apart  from  unskilled  labor. 


72  THE  WORKERS 

For  odd  jobs  we  were  each  to  have  out  an  eye, 
and  our  acquaintance  thus  far  with  such  a  course 
made  us  fairly  confident  of  at  least  the  means  of 
bare  subsistence. 

But  nothing  is  less  predictable  than  the  out- 
come of  this  fortuitous  living.  The  days  vary 
with  the  variability  which  belongs  to  existence. 
Things  "  come  your  way  "  at  times,  and  then 
again  they  have  another  destination  which  your 
widest  and  closest  search  fails  to  reveal. 

It  was  hard,  but  it  was  not  impossible  through 
that  Saturday  morning  to  keep  one's  purpose 
fairly  firm.  From  the  ebb  of  the  city's  traffic  in 
the  darkness  before  the  dawn  I  felt  it  flowing  to 
its  full  tide.  However  destitute  a  man  may  be 
he  cannot  fail  to  share  the  quickening  to  waking 
life  of  a  great  city.  The  mystery  of  deepest  night 
enfolds  the  place,  and  from  out  its  veiling  dark- 
ness the  vague  conformations  of  streets  and  build- 
ings gradually  emerge  to  the  sharp  outlines  of  the 
day's  reality.  An  occasional  delivery  wagon  from 
the  market,  or  a  milkman's  cart  goes  rattling  down 
a  street,  awaking  echoes  as  of  a  deserted  town,  or 
a  heavy  truck  laden  with  great  rolls  of  white 
paper  for  the  printing-press  passes  slowly,  drawn 
by  gigantic  horses  whose  flat,  hairy  hoofs  pa- 
tiently pound  the  cobbles  in  their  plodding  pace, 
while  whiffs  of  white  vapor  puff  from  their  nos- 


LIVING  BY  ODD  JOBS  73 

trils  with  their  deep,  regular  breathing.  The 
driver's  oath  can  be  heard  a  square  away. 

Standing  at  the  curb  along  an  open  space  in 
front  of  a  public  building  are  a  few  "  night 
hawks."  The  horses  are  heavily  blanketed  and 
their  noses  buried  in  eating-bags.  The  cabmen 
have  drawn  together  in  social  community  on  the 
pavement,  where,  as  they  gossip  in  the  cold, 
they  alternately  stamp  the  flagging  with  their 
feet  and  clasp  themselves  in  hard,  sweeping 
embraces  of  the  arms  to  stir  the  sluggish  blood 
to  swifter  movement.  An  empty  cable-car  goes 
tearing  round  a  "  loop  "  with  noise  to  awake 
the  dead,  and  sets  off  again  to  some  outermost 
portion  of  the  town  with  a  sleepy  policeman  on 
board  and  a  newsboy,  his  bundle,  damp  from  the 
press,  upon  his  lap,  who  is  bent  on  being  first  with 
news  to  that  suburban  region.  The  cars  fill  first 
with  workingmen  who  are  bound  for  distant  fac- 
tories and  workshops  and  their  posts  along  the 
lines  of  railways. 

The  streets  are  echoing  now  to  the  sounds  of  in- 
creasing traffic  and  to  the  steps  of  the  vanguard 
of  workers.  These  are  the  wage-earners,  men  for 
the  most  part,  but  there  are  women,  too,  and  cl^ 
dren.  Here  is  humanity  in  the  raw,  hard-handed 
and  roughly  wrought  for  the  Atlasian  task  of  sus- 
taining, by  sheer  physical  strength  and  manual 


74  THE   WORKERS 

skill,  the  towering,  delicate,  intricate  structure 
of  progressive  civilization. 

The  first  of  the  salaried  workers  follow  these, 
and  youth  swarms  upon  the  streets  moving  with 
swift  steps  to  the  great  co-educational  schools  of 
practical  business.  There  are  countless  "  cash  " 
children  in  the  throng,  and  office  boys,  and  sales- 
women and  men,  and  clerks,  and  secretaries,  and 
fledgling  lawyers.  There  are  marks  of  poverty 
on  the  faces  and  in  the  garments  of  the  children, 
but  most  of  the  older  ones  are  dressed  in  all  the 
warmth  and  comfort  of  the  well-to-do,  while  the 
young  women  who  form  so  large  a  portion  of  the 
crowd  step  briskly  in  dainty  boots  carrying 
themselves  with  figures  erect  and  graceful, 
clothed  with  the  style  and  chic  which  are  theirs 
as  a  national  trait.  Many  of  the  men  are,  in  con- 
trast, markedly  careless  and  unkempt. 

All  these  are  at  work  by  eight  o'clock,  the 
wage-earners  having  been  at  it  an  hour  already. 
Then  come,  mingling  in  the  miscellaneous  con- 
course of  business  streets  which  have  taken  on  the 
full  day's  complexity,  the  superintendents  and 
managers,  and  the  heads  of  business  houses  and 
of  legal  firms,  and  bankers,  and  brokers,  and  all 
the  company  of  rare  men,  whose  native  gifts  of 
creative  power  or  organizing  capacity  or  execu- 
tive ability,  joined  to  great  energy  and  resolution, 


LIVING   BY   ODD  JOBS  75 

have  placed  them  in  command  of  their  co-work- 
ers, and  made  them  responsible,  as  only  the  few 
can  be  responsible,  for  the  lives  and  well-being  of 
their  fellows. 

I  recognize  an  eminent  lawyer  in  the  moving 
crowd,  who,  in  democratic  fashion,  is  walking 
to  his  office.  He  is  a  nobleman  by  every  gift  of 
nature,  and  his  sensitive,  expressive  face,  respon- 
sive to  the  grace  of  passing  thought,  is  an  uncon- 
scious appeal  to  my  flagging  courage,  and  to  that, 
perhaps,  of  many  another  man  in  the  pressing 
throng. 

I  see  in  a  jolting  omnibus  a  noted  merchant, 
his  head  bowed  over  a  morning  paper  as  he  rides 
to  his  business  house.  He  holds  a  foremost  place 
in  business,  yet  it  is  fully  equalled  by  his  stand- 
ing as  a  Christian  gentleman  and  as  a  wise  and 
most  efficient  philanthropist. 

Almost  touching  elbows  we  pass  each  other  on 
the  street,  a  fellow-alumnus  of  my  college  and  I, 
he  an  inheritor  of  great  wealth  and  of  a  vast 
enterprise  far-reaching  in  its  scope  to  distant  por- 
tions of  the  earth.  And  yet,  so  unmarred  has  he 
remained  under  the  lavish  gifts  of  fortune  that  his 
is  already  the  dominant  genius  in  the  administra- 
tion of  immense  productive  power,  and  his  influ- 
ence is  increasingly  felt  as  a  helpful  and  guiding 
force  in  great  educational  institutions  of  the  land. 


76  THE   WORKERS 

But  this  resurgence  of  the  city's  life,  while  it 
quickens  the  pulses  for  the  time,  is  not  an  inspira- 
tion to  last  one  through  a  day  of  disappointing 
search.  By  noon  I  had  been  turned  many  times 
away,  and  a  sharp  refusal  to  a  polite  request  to  be 
given  a  chance  to  work  cuts  deeper  than  men 
know  who  have  never  felt  its  wound.  You  try 
to  ignore  it  at  the  first,  and  you  bring  greater 
energy  to  bear  upon  the  hunt,  but  your  wounds 
are  there;  and,  in  each  succeeding  advance,  it  is 
a  sterner  self-compulsion  that  forces  you  to  lay 
bare  again  the  shrinking  quick  of  your  quivering 
sensibilities.  How  often  have  I  loitered  about  a 
door,  passing  and  repassing  it  again  and  yet  again 
before  I  could  summon  courage  for  the  ordeal 
of  a  simple  request  for  work! 

Early  in  my  experience  I  learned  never  to  ask 
after  a  possible  vacancy.  Employers  have  no  va- 
cancies to  be  filled  by  such  an  inquirer.  I  simply 
said  that  I  was  looking  for  a  job,  and  should  be 
glad  of  any  work  that  I  could  do;  and  that,  if  I 
could  be  given  a  chance  to  work,  I  would  do  my 
best  to  earn  a  place. 

This  request  in  practically  the  same  terms  pro- 
duced often  the  most  opposite  effects.  One  man 
would  answer  with  a  kindliness  so  genuine  and  a 
regret  so  evidently  sincere  that  it  was  with  an  ut- 
most effort  at  times  that  I  could  control  myself 


LIVING  BY  ODD  JOBS  77 

And  but  a  few  minutes  later  another  man  might 
answer,  if  not  with  oaths  and  threats  of  violence, 
yet  with  a  cynical  sharpness  which  would  leave 
a  sorer  rankling. 

Despondency  had  almost  conquered  hope  at 
last,  and  well-nigh  worn  one's  courage  out,  and 
all  but  brought  your  drooping  spirits  to  the  brink 
of  that  abyss,  where  men  think  that  they  can  give 
the  struggle  up.  It  is  marvellous  how  the  ex- 
ternal aspect  of  all  things  changes  to  you  here. 
The  very  stones  beneath  your  feet  are  the  hard 
paving  of  your  prison-house;  the  threatening 
winter  sky  above  you  is  the  vaulted  ceiling  of 
your  dungeon;  the  buildings  towering  to  nearly 
twenty  stories  about  you  are  your  prison  walls, 
and,  as  by  a  keen  refinement  of  cruelty,  they 
swarm  with  hiving  industry,  as  if  to  mock  you  in 
your  bitter  plight. 

Suddenly  there  dawns  upon  you  an  undreamed- 
of significance  in  the  machinery  of  social  re- 
straint. The  policeman  on  the  crossing  in  his 
slouching  uniform  bespattered  with  the  oozing 
slime  of  the  miry  streets  where  he  controls  the 
streams  of  traffic,  even  as  the  Fellaheen  direct  the 
water  of  the  Nile  through  the  net-work  of  their 
irrigation  ditches,  is  the  outstretched  hand  of  the 
law  ready  to  lay  hold  on  you,  should  you  violate 
in  your  despair  the  rules  of  social  order.  Behind 


78  THE    WORKERS 

him  you  see  the  patrol  wagon  and  the  station- 
house  and  the  courts  of  law  and  the  State's  prison 
and  enforced  labor,  the  whole  elaborate  process 
by  means  of  which  society  would  reassimilate 
you,  an  excrement,  a  non-social  being  as  a  trans- 
gressor of  the  law,  into  the  body  politic  once 
more,  and  set  you  to  fulfilling  a  functional  activ- 
ity as  a  part  of  the  social  organism. 

This  result,  with  the  means  of  living  which  it 
implies  and  the  link  that  it  gives  you  to  your 
kind,  even  if  it  be  the  relation  of  a  criminal  to 
society,  may  become  the  object  of  a  desire  so 
strong  that  the  shame  and  punishment  involved 
may  lose  their  deterring  force  for  you. 

There  are  simple  means  of  setting  all  this  proc- 
ess in  motion  in  your  behalf.  Men  break  shop- 
windows  in  full  view  of  the  police,  or  voluntarily 
hold  out  to  them  hands  weighted  with  the  spoils 
of  theft. 

Perhaps  it  is  in  the  moving  crowds  upon  the 
pavements  that  one,  in  such  a  mood,  feels  most  of 
all  this  change  in  external  aspect.  The  loneliness, 
the  sense  of  being  a  thing  apart  in  the  presence 
of  your  working  kind,  a  thing  un vitalized  by  real 
contact  with  the  streams  of  life,  is  the  seat  of  your 
worst  suffering,  and  the  pain  is  augmented  by 
what  seems  an  actual  antagonism  to  you  as  to 
something  beyond  the  range  of  human  sympathy. 


LIVING   BY   ODD  JOBS  79 

By  the  middle  of  that  Saturday  afternoon  I 
had  fairly  given  up  the  search  for  work,  and  I 
found  myself  on  State  Street,  wandering  aim- 
lessly  in  the  hope  of  an  odd  job.  Hunger  and 
utter  weariness  were  playing  their  part,  as  well  as 
the  loneliness  and  the  sense  of  imprisonment. 
One  had  the  feeling  that,  if  he  could  but  sit  down 
somewhere  and  rest,  all  other  troubles  would  van- 
ish for  the  time  at  least.  And  there  were,  I 
knew,  many  public  rooms  to  which  I  could  go 
in  unquestioned  right  or  privilege,  but  once 
within  their  warmth,  I  was  well  aware  that  to 
keep  awake  would  tax  all  my  power  of  will,  and 
that,  as  a  sleeping  lounger,  I  should  soon  be 
turned  adrift  again. 

The  street  was  coated  with  a  murky  mire, 
kneaded  by  hoofs  and  wheels  to  the  consistency 
of  paste,  and  tracked  by  countless  feet  upon  the 
pavements,  where  it  lay  as  thick  almost  as  on  the 
cobbles.  The  skyline  on  both  sides  was  a  ragged 
sierra,  mounting  from  three  to  five  and  seven 
stories,  then  leaping  suddenly  on  the  right  to  the 
appalling  height  of  the  Masonic  Temple,  and  gro- 
tesque in  all  its  length  with  rearing  signs  and  flag- 
staffs  that  pierced  the  smoky  vapor  of  the  upper 
air,  while  the  sagging  halyards  fluttered  like  fine 
threads  in  the  icy  gusts  from  off  the  lake.  Whole 
fronts  of  flamboyant  architecture  were  almost 


80  THE   WORKERS 

concealed  behind  huge  bombastic  signs,  while 
other  advertising  devices  hung  suspended  over- 
head, watches  three  feet  in  diameter,  and  boots 
and  hats  of  a  giant  race. 

The  shop  windows  were  draped  with  the  scal- 
loped fringes  of  idle  awnings,  and  merely  a  glance 
at  their  displays  was  enough  to  disclose  a  commer- 
cial difference  separated  by  only  the  width  of  the 
thoroughfare,  a  difference  like  that  between 
Twenty-third  Street  and  the  Bowery. 

From  Polk  Street  and  State  I  drifted  north- 
ward to  the  river.  No  longer  was  there  any  stim- 
ulus in  contact  with  the  intermingling  crowds. 
All  that  was  hard  and  sordid  in  one's  lot  seemed 
to  have  blinded  one  to  all  but  the  hard  and  sordid 
in  the  world  about.  Beneath  its  structural  veil- 
ing you  could  not  see  the  warm  heart  of  life,  ten- 
der and  strong  and  true.  Multitudes  of  human 
faces  passed  you,  deeply  marked  with  the  lines  of 
baser  care.  Human  eyes  looked  out  of  them  full 
of  the  unconscious  tragic  pathos  of  the  blind, 
blind  to  all  vision  but  the  light  of  common  day; 
eyes  of  the  money  grubbers,  sharpened  to  a  nee- 
dle's point  yet  incapable  of  deeper  insight  than 
the  prospect  of  gain;  eyes  of  the  haunted  poor, 
furtive  in  the  fear  of  things,  and  seeing  only  the 
incalculable,  threatening  hand  of  fateful  pov- 
erty; eyes  of  ragged  children  who  were  selling 


LIVING  BY   ODD  JOBS  81 

papers  on  the  streets,  their  eyes  old  with  the  age 
of  the  ages,  as  though  there  gazed  through  them 
the  unnumbered  generations  of  the  poor  who 
have  endured  "  long  labor  unto  aged  breath;  " 
eyes  of  the  rich,  hardened  by  a  subtler  misery  in 
the  artificial  lives  they  lead  in  sternest  bondage 
to  powers  in  whom  all  faith  is  gone,  but  whom 
they  serve  in  utter  fear,  scourged  by  convention 
to  the  acting  of  an  unmeaning  part  in  life,  seek- 
ing above  all  things  escape  from  self  in  the  fan- 
tastic stimuli  of  fashion,  yet  feeling  ever,  in  the 
dark,  the  remorseless  closing  in  of  the  contract- 
ing prison-walls  of  self-indulgence  narrowing 
daily  the  scope  of  self,  and  threatening  life  with 
its  grimmest  tragedy,  in  the  hopeless,  faithless, 
purposeless  ennui  of  existence. 

And  now  there  passed  me  in  the  street  two  sis- 
ters of  charity  walking  side  by  side.  Their  sweet, 
placid  faces,  framed  in  white,  reflected  the  limpid 
purity  of  unselfish  useful  living,  and  their  eyes, 
deep-seeing  into  human  misery  and  evil,  were  yet 
serene  in  the  all-conquering  strength  of  goodness. 

It  was  in  some  saner  thought  inspired  by  this 
vision  that  I  walked  on  across  the  river  to  the 
comparative  quiet  of  the  North  Side.  I  need- 
ed all  the  sanity  that  I  could  summon.  The 
setting  sun  had  broken  for  a  moment  through 

snow-laden  clouds,  and  it  shone  in  blazing  shafts 
6 


82  THE  WORKERS 

of  blood-red  light  through  the  hazy  lengths  of 
westward  streets.  Its  rays  fell  warmly  upon  a 
wide,  deep  window  as  I  passed,  and  the  rich  re- 
flection caught  my  eye.  For  some  time  I  stood 
still,  a  prey  to  conflicting  feelings.  Just  within 
the  window  with  the  shades  undrawn,  sat  a  friend 
in  lounging  ease  before  an  open  fire,  absorbed  in 
his  evening  paper.  There  flashed  before  me  the 
scene  of  our  last  encounter.  "We  stood  at  parting 
on  a  wharf  in  the  balmy  warmth  of  late  winter  in 
the  far  South.  Behind  my  friend  was  the  brill- 
iant carpeting  of  open  lawns  and  blooming  beds  of 
flowers,  and  beyond  lay  the  deep  olive  green  of 
forests  of  live-oak  with  palmettos  growing  in 
dense  underbrush,  and  the  white  "  shell  road  '' 
gleaming  in  the  varied  play  of  lights  and  shadows 
until  it  lost  itself,  in  its  course  to  the  beach,  in  the 
deepening  gloom  of  overdrooping  boughs  weight- 
ed with  hanging  moss  in  an  effect  of  tropical  lux- 
uriance. And  from  out  that  vivid  mental  picture 
there  came  again,  almost  articulate  in  its  reality, 
the  graceful  urging  of  my  friend  that  I  should 
visit  him  in  his  Western  home. 

It  was  so  short  a  step  by  which  I  could  emerge 
from  the  submerged,  and  the  temptation  to  take 
it  was  so  strong  and  inviting.  The  want  and  hard- 
ship and  hideous  squalor  were  bad  enough,  but 
these  things  could  be  endured  for  the  sake  of  the 


LIVING  BY   ODD   JOBS  83 

end  in  view.  It  was  the  longing  for  fellowship 
that  had  grown  to  almost  overmastering  desire, 
the  sight  of  a  familiar  face,  the  sound  of  a  famil- 
iar voice,  the  healing  touch  of  cultivated  speech 
to  feelings  all  raw  under  the  brutalities  of  the 
street  vernacular. 

And  after  all,  what  real  purpose  was  my  ex- 
periment to  serve?  I  had  set  out  to  learn  and  in 
the  hope  of  gaining  from  what  I  learned  some- 
thing worth  the  while  of  a  careful  investigation. 
I  had  discovered  much  that  was  new  to  me,  but 
nothing  that  was  new  to  science,  and  the  ex- 
perience of  a  single  individual  could  never  fur- 
nish data  for  a  valid  generalization,  and  all 
that  I  had  learned  or  could  learn  was  already 
set  forth  in  tabulated,  statistical  accuracy  in 
blue  books  and  economic  treatises.  Moreover 
it  was  impossible  for  me  to  rightly  interpret 
even  the  human  conditions  in  which  I  found 
myself,  for  between  me  and  the  actual  work- 
ers was  the  infinite  difference  of  necessity  in 
relation  to  any  lot  in  which  I  was.  How  could 
I,  who  at  any  moment  could  change  my  status  if 
I  chose,  enter  really  into  the  life  and  feelings  of 
the  destitute  poor  who  are  bound  to  their  lot  by 
the  hardest  facts  of  stern  reality?  It  was  all 
futile  and  inadequate  and  absurd.  I  had  learned 
something,  and  as  for  further  inquiry  of  this  kind, 


84  THE   WORKERS 

I  would  better  give  it  up,  and  return  to  a  life  that 
was  normal  to  me. 

The  sense  of  futility  was  strong  upon  me. 
Never  before  had  the  temptation  to  abandon  the 
attempt  assailed  me  with  such  force.  It  was  no 
clean-cut,  definite  resolution  that  won  in  favor 
of  continued  effort.  Not  at  all.  I  think  that 
when  I  turned  away  I  was  more  than  half-re- 
solved to  give  over  the  experiment.  But  even  as 
a  man,  who,  contemplating  suicide,  allows  him- 
self to  be  borne  upon  the  aimless  stream  of  com- 
mon events  past  the  point  of  many  an  early  reso- 
lution to  the  deed,  so  I  found  myself  gradually 
awaking  to  the  thought,  "  Ah,  well,  I  will  try  it 
a  little  longer." 

It  was  in  this  mood  that  I  went  to  find  Clark 
at  our  rendezvous.  Our  eyes  met  in  quick  in- 
quiry, and  before  either  of  us  spoke,  we  knew 
each  the  other's  story.  But  Clark  wished  the 
confirmation  of  actual  confession. 

"  Ain't  you  had  no  luck  too?  "  he  whispered, 
his  eyes  close  to  mine,  and  contracting  with  a 
sense  of  the  incredibility  of  such  a  result,  which 
might  be  altered,  if  one  would  only  insist  strong- 
ly enough  upon  its  being  other  than  it  actually 
was. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  I've  had  no  luck,  nor  anything 
to  eat  since  morning."  We  were  speaking  in  the 


LIVING  BY  ODD  JOBS  85 

low  tones  which  were  permitted  in  the  reading- 
room. 

"  Well,  I'll  be ."  And  Clark's  drawling 

oath  seemed  exactly  suited  to  the  absurdity  of 
the  situation.  We  both  laughed  softly  over  our 
coincident  dilemma,  and  by  a  mutual  impulse  we 
walked  out  into  the  street,  where  we  spent  an 
agreeable  half -hour  in  discussing  the  placards  in 
the  windows  of  two  restaurants. 

There  was  an  especial  attraction  for  us  in  the 
lower  window  where  there  stood  a  chef  all  white 
from  his  spotless  cap  to  where  his  white  garments 
were  lost  to  view  behind  a  gas-stove  of  ingenious 
contrivance,  on  whose  clean,  polished  upper  sur- 
face he  was  turning  well-browned  griddle-cakes. 
I  do  not  know  what  the  association  was,  and  it  was 
in  entire  good-humor  that  Clark  suddenly  turned 
to  me  with  the  remark: 

"  Say,  partner,  we'd  get  all  we  want  to  eat,  if 
we'd  heave  a  rock  through  this  window." 


CHAPTER  HI 

FINDING  STEADY  WORK 

No.  —  BLUE  ISLAND  AVENUE,  CHICAGO,  ILL., 
December  22,  1891. 

THAT  night  when  Clark  and  I  reached  the  head 
of  the  staircase  which  descends  to  the  basement  of 
the  station-house  we  found  the  way  blocked  by 
men.  We  thought  at  first  that  a  prisoner  was 
being  booked,  but  a  second  glance  revealed  the 
fact  that  the  door  of  iron  grating  was  wide  open. 
"With  his  back  against  it  stood  an  officer.  The 
lodgers  were  passing  him  in  slow  order,  and,  as 
they  filed  by,  the  policeman  held  each  in  sharp 
examination  for  a  moment.  Soon  I  could  see  him 
clearly.  He  stood,  obstructing  the  exit  from  the 
stairs,  a  straight,  massive  figure  well  on  to  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  A  side-view  was 
toward  us,  and  I  took  delight  in  the  clean-shaven 
face  with  the  well-chiselled  Grecian  profile,  the 
eye  deep-set  and  widening  to  the  upward  lift  of 
the  lashes,  and  the  dark,  abundant  hair  rising  in 
short,  crisp  curls  from  under  the  pressure  of  his 

cap-rim. 

88 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  87 

He  was  putting  the  men  through  a  catechism 
respecting  their  nationalities,  their  homes  and  oc- 
cupations, and  their  motives  in  coming  to  Chi- 
cago. Beside  him  stood  two  men,  the  elder  a 
man  past  middle  life,  of  sober,  dignified  appear- 
ance, and  with  an  air  of  philosophical  interest  in 
what  he  saw.  The  younger  was  a  callow  youth, 
just  grown  to  manhood,  and  he  may  have  been 
the  other's  son.  They  were  out  "  slumming," 
evidently,  and  the  officer  had  been  detailed  as 
their  guide.  Their  purpose  may  have  been  a 
good  one,  but  the  boy's  face,  as  I  watched  it, 
seemed  to  me  to  show  plainly  the  marks  of  an  un- 
wholesome curiosity.  And  certainly  as  they  stood 
there  in  well-dressed,  well-fed  comfort,  eying  at 
leisure,  as  though  it  were  exhibited  for  their  di- 
version, this  company  of  homeless,  ragged,  need- 
ful men,  there  was  to  my  mind  a  deliberate  insult 
in  the  attitude  sharper  than  the  sting  of  a  blow  in 
the  face.  I  thought  at  first  that  I  might  be  alone 
in  feeling  this,  until  I  heard  a  man  behind  me 
say,  as  the  cause  of  the  delay  became  clear  to 
him: 

"  Who  is  them  jays,  and  what  business  have 
they  inspectin'  us? " 

On  the  step  below  me  was  as  good  a  vagrant 
type  as  the  slowly  moving  line  on  the  stair- 
case disclosed.  I  could  not  see  his  face,  but  I 


88  THE   WORKERS 

could  guess  at  its  effect  from  the  dark,  bristling, 
unkempt  beard  that  sprouted  in  tangled,  wiry 
masses  from  his  cheeks  and  throat,  and  the  heavy, 
cohering  hair  that  lay  long  and  thick  about  his 
ears  and  on  his  neck.  There  was  an  unnatural 
corpulence  about  the  figure,  the  reality  of  which 
was  belied  by  the  lean,  sharp  lines  that  appeared 
beneath  a  bulging  collar  and  in  the  emaciated 
arms  that  were  red,  and  raw,  and  almost  bare 
below  the  elbows,  where  the  ragged  sleeves  hung 
in  fraying  ribbons. 

The  obesity  was  purely  artificial.  The  tramp 
had  on  three  flannel  shirts,  at  least,  besides  sev- 
eral heavy  waistcoats  and  two  pairs  of  trousers 
and  as  many  coats,  with  a  possibility  of  there  be- 
ing three.  The  outer  garments  were  quaint  mo- 
saics of  patches,  positively  ingenious  in  their  in- 
terlacing adherence  to  one  another  and  in  their 
rude  preservation  of  original  outlines  of  dress. 
From  him  came  the  pungent  reek  of  bad  whiskey 
and  stale  tobacco. 

It  was  as  though  the  man  stood  clothed  in  out- 
ward and  visible  signs  of  unseen  realities,  en- 
veloped in  the  rigid  habit  of  his  own  wrong-doing, 
draped  in  the  mystery  of  inherited  tendencies, 
and  cloaked  in  the  stern  facts  of  a  hard  environ- 
ment. And  yet,  as  beneath  the  filthy  outer  cover- 
ing there  was  a  human  being,  so  under  these  veil- 


HE  WAS  ITTTING  THE  MEN  THKOl'GH  A  CATECHISM  RESPECTING  THEIH 
NATIONALITIES,  THEIR  HOMES  AND  OCCUPATIONS,  AND  THEIR 
MOTIVES  IN  COMING  TO  CHICAGO. 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  89 

ing,  unseen  vestures  was  a  man,  a  living  soul 
created  by  the  Almighty. 

I  could  hear  him  muttering  gruffly  to  himself 
as  he  slowly  descended  to  his  turn  at  the  foot  of 
the  steps. 

"  Well,  Weary,  where  are  you  from?  A  hobo 
from  Hoboville,  I  guess,"  and  the  officer's  voice 
rang  strong  and  clear  up  the  staircase  to  the  dim 
landing,  where  stood  the  waiting  line  of  men. 

The  two  shimmers  laughed  aloud. 

"  From  Maine,"  said  the  tramp.  The  voice 
came  hoarse  and  thin  and  broken-winded  from 
a  throat  eaten  out  by  disease. 

"  Well,  you're  a  rare  one,  if  you're  a  Yankee. 
But  what  brought  you  to  Chicago?  " 

"  Lookin'  for  work  at  the  World's  Fair." 

"  You  lie,  you  lazy  loafer.  The  last  thing 
you're  looking  for  is  work.  You  all  tell  that 
World's  Fair  lie.  There's  been  as  many  of  you 
in  Chicago  every  winter  for  the  last  ten  years  as 
there  is  this  winter." 

The  man  was  stung. 

"  I've  as  good  a  right  here  as  you,"  he  said. 

"  You  have,  have  you !  "  cried  the  officer  in 
quick  rejoinder,  but  with  no  loss  of  temper. 
"  Look  at  me,  you  filthy  hobo,"  he  added,  draw- 
ing himself  to  his  full,  imposing  height.  "  I'm 
a  police  officer.  I've  held  my  job  for  eleven 


90  THE   WORKERS 

years,  and  got  my  promotions.  I'm  earning 
eighty  dollars  a  month,  do  you  see?  Now  go 
down  there  where  you  belong,"  and  he  pointed 
imperiously  to  the  far  end  of  the  corridor. 

My  turn  came  next. 

"  Here's  another  whiskers,"  announced  the  of- 
ficer in  explanation  to  his  charges;  "  same  kind, 
only  younger  and  newer  to  the  business."  And 
then  to  me,  "  Where  are  you  from  ?  "  he  said. 

I  replied  with  some  inanity  in  mock  German. 
"  Oh,  he's  a  Dutchman.  We  get  a  few  of  them. 
But  they're  mostly  older  men,  and  kind  of  moody, 
and  they  tramp  alone  a  good  bit.  Can't  you  talk 
English?" 

I  said  something  in  very  bad  French. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  he's  a  Frenchy.  That's  very  un- 
common  " 

I  interrupted  his  information  with  a  line  from 
Virgil,  spoken  with  an  inflection  of  inquiry. 

"  He  may  be  a  Dago,  or  a — ah "  he  hesi- 
tated. 

I  broke  in  with  a  sentence  in  Greek. 

"  Or  a  Russian,"  concluded  the  officer. 

I  thought  that  I  could  mystify  him  finally, 
and  so  I  pronounced  a  verse  from  Genesis  in  He- 
brew. But  he  was  equal  to  the  emergence. 

"  I've  got  it,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  note  of  ex- 
ultation; "  he's  a  Sheeny!  "  And  free  to  go  I 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  91 

walked  down  the  corridor,  feeling  that  I  had 
come  rather  badly  out  of  that  encounter. 

None  of  us,  I  think,  resented  much  the  action 
of  the  officer.  The  policemen  understand  us  per- 
fectly, and  in  a  certain  broad,  human  sense  we 
know  them  for  our  friends.  I  have  been  much 
impressed  with  this  quality  of  natural  bonhomie 
in  the  relation  of  the  police  officers  to  the  vagrant 
and  criminal  classes.  It  seems  to  be  the  outcome 
of  sturdy  common  sense  and  genuine  knowledge 
and  human  sympathy.  It  would  be  difficult,  I 
fancy,  seriously  to  deceive  an  average  officer  of 
good  experience.  He  may  not  know  his  man  per- 
sonally in  every  case,  but  he  knows  his  type,  and 
he  takes  his  measure  with  admirable  accuracy. 
He  is  not  far  misled  by  either  his  virtue  or  his 
vice.  He  knows  him  for  a  human  being,  even  if 
he  be  a  vagrant  or  a  criminal,  and  he  has  come 
by  practical  experience  to  a  fair  acquaintance 
with  human  limitations  in  these  spheres  of  life. 

The  sympathy  of  which  I  have  spoken  is  con- 
spicuously innocent  of  sentimentality.  It  comes 
from  a  saner  source,  and  is  of  a  hardier  fibre. 
Unfortunately  it  lays  open  a  way  of  corruption 
to  corrupt  men  on  the  force,  but  it  is  the  basis, 
too,  of  high  practical  efficiency  in  the  difficult 
task  of  locating  crime  and  keeping  it  within  con- 
trol. And  it  has  another  value  little  suspected, 


92  THE   WORKERS 

perhaps.  I  have  met  more  than  one  working- 
man  at  work  who  owed  his  job  to  the  friendly  aid 
of  a  policeman,  who  had  singled  him  out  from 
the  ranks  of  the  unemployed  as  being  worthy  of 
his  help.  And  this  sort  of  timely  succor  is 
bounded,  I  judge,  only  by  the  limits  of  opportu- 
nity. Certainly  I  shall  never  forget  the  kindness 
of  an  officer  who  had  evidently  grown  familiar 
with  me  on  the  streets,  and  who  to  my  great  sur- 
prise stopped  me  suddenly  one  day  with  the  ques- 
tion: 

"  Ain't  yous  got  a  job  yet? " 

"  No,"  I  said,  as  I  stood  looking  up  in  deep 
admiration  of  his  height  and  breadth  and  ruddy, 
wholesome  face  and  generous  Irish  brogue. 

"  Well,  that  is  hard  luck,"  he  went  on. 
"  There  isn't  many  jobs  ever  at  this  season  of 
the  year,  but  just  yous  come  around  this  way  now 
and  again,  and  I'll  tell  yous,  if  I  hears  of  any- 
thing." 

That  was  only  a  day  or  two  before  I  found 
work,  and  when  I  had  a  chance  to  tell  him  of 
my  success,  his  pleasure  seemed  as  genuine  as  my 
own< 

Sunday  morning  was  all  that  Clark  and  I 
could  wish.  To  the  pallor  of  the  earliest  dawn 
was  added  a  soft,  white  muffling  of  snow.  It  lay 


FINDING   STEADY    WORK  93 

almost  untracked  over  the  filthy  streets  and  upon 
the  pavements,  and  in  dainty  cones  it  capped  the 
fence-palings,  and  roofed  in  pure  white  the  sheds 
and  flat-cars  in  the  railway-station  yard. 

Clark  and  I  walked  rapidly  across  Wabash 
Avenue,  then  south  to  Twentieth  Street,  and  then 
east  again  across  Michigan  and  Indiana  to  Prairie 
Avenue.  Here  we  were  in  the  midst  of  a  wealthy 
residence  quarter.  Most  hopefully  we  wandered 
about  in  anxious  waiting  for  some  signs  of  life. 
From  the  first  house  at  which  we  could  apply  we 
were  turned  away  with  the  assurance  that  there 
was  a  man  on  the  place  whose  duties  included 
the  cleaning  of  the  pavements,  and  that,  there- 
fore, our  services  were  not  needed.  We  had  ex- 
pected this  to  be  the  case  in  the  majority  of  in- 
stances; it  was  of  the  possible  exception  that  we 
were  in  search.  Soon  we  began  to  fear  that  there 
were  no  exceptions.  Our  spirits  had  fallen  low 
under  repeated  refusals,  when  suddenly  they 
rose  with  a  bound,  when  we  finally  got  a  pave- 
ment to  clean,  and  twenty-five  cents  each  in  pay- 
ment. 

The  temptation  to  quit  at  once  and  get  some- 
thing to  eat  was  strong,  for  the  swallow  of  coffee 
and  piece  of  bread  at  the  station-house  had  not 
gone  far  toward  satisfying  an  appetite  which  was 
of  twenty-four  hours'  growth.  But  then  in  an- 


94  THE   WORKERS 

other  hour  or  two  all  further  chance  of  work  like 
this  would  be  gone,  and  so  we  stuck  at  it.  Our 
reward  was  almost  instant. 

Not  only  were  we  given  a  job  at  sweeping 
snow,  and  paid  another  quarter  each  for  it,  but 
we  were  asked  whether  we  had  breakfasted,  and 
were  invited  to  a  meal  in  the  kitchen.  I  think 
that  the  cook  thoroughly  enjoyed  feeding  us,  we 
did  such  ample  justice  to  her  fare.  After  two 
large  bowls  of  steaming  porridge,  we  began  on 
omelettes  and  beefsteak  and  crisp  potatoes  and 
fresh  bread,  drinking  the  while  great  quantities 
of  coffee,  not  the  flat,  bitter,  diluted  wash  of  the 
cheap  restaurants,  but  the  hot,  creamy,  fragrant 
beverage  which  tones  one  for  the  day. 

We  had  little  time  to  talk,  and  very  selfishly 
I  left  our  end  of  the  conversation  wholly  to  Clark. 
The  cook  drew  from  him  some  of  the  facts  of  our 
position,  and  the  further  fact  of  our  having  been 
so  long  without  food.  This  made  her  very  indig- 
nant, not  at  us,  but  at  the  existing  order  of  things. 

"  There  should  be  a  law,"  she  said,  emphati- 
cally, "  a  law  to  give  a  job  to  every  decent  man 
that's  out  of  work."  Then,  with  the  sweet  facil- 
ity of  feminine  remedy,  "  And  another  law,"  she 
added,  "  to  keep  all  them  I-talians  from  comin' 
in  and  takin'  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  hon- 
est people.  They  ain't  no  better  than  heathens 


FINDING  STEADY   WORK  95 

anyway,  and  they  do  tell  me  that  they'll  work  for 
what  a  Christian  dog  wouldn't  live  on.  Why, 
there's  me  own  cousin  as  come  over  from  County 
Down  a  month  ago  last  Tuesday,  and  he  ain't  got 
a  job  yet,  and  I  be  obliged  to  support  him,  and 
all  on  account  of  them  unclean  I-talians." 

There  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  our  good  luck 
that  morning.  After  a  right  royal  breakfast 
we  got  still  another  belated  pavement  to  clean, 
and  when  we  had  finished  that  our  joint  earnings 
made  the  sumptuous  total  of  one  dollar  and  fifty 
cents,  and  we  were  not  hungry. 

It  was  a  delightful  walk  back  to  the  familiar 
lodging-house,  where  we  paid  for  a  night's  lodg- 
ing in  advance,  and  so  secured  immediate  access 
to  the  washing  and  cleaning  facilities  of  the  es- 
tablishment. 

When  we  set  forth  again  Clark  looked  fairly 
trim.  His  clothes  were  well  brushed  and  his 
boots  were  clean.  He  had  been  shaven,  and  his 
face  glowed  with  healthful  exercise  and  the  ef- 
fects of  nourishing,  sustaining  food.  We  had 
been  in  conversation  on  the  subject  of  going  to 
church.  Clark  opposed  it  warmly;  besides,  he 
had  another  plan.  There  were  certain  foremen 
whom  he  was  bent  on  seeing  in  the  unoccupied 
quiet  of  Sunday,  in  relation  to  the  matter  of  a 
possible  job. 


96  THE   WORKERS 

"  And  I  don't  take  no  stock  in  church,  any- 
way," he  explained.  "  Fellows  like  us  ain't  ex- 
pected there,  and  we  ain't  wanted.  If  you  ain't 
dressed  in  the  style,  you're  different  from  every- 
body else  that's  there,  and  there  ain't  no  fun  in 
that.  And  if  you  do  go,  what  do  you  hear? 
Sometimes  a  preacher  talks  sense,  and  makes 
things  reasonable  to  you,  but  most  of  them  talks 
rot,  that  you  don't  believe  nor  they  either.  I'd 
sooner  read  Tom  Paine  than  hear  all  the  preach- 
ers in  this  town.  He  talks  to  you  straight,  in  a 
way  you  can  understand." 

I  pleaded  my  knowledge  of  a  preacher  who 
would  talk  to  us  as  "  straight  "  as  Tom  Paine,  but 
to  no  purpose,  for  there  remained  the  question  of 
dress.  Then  I  urged  our  going  to  mass,  where 
we  should  not  be  embarrassed  by  our  singularity; 
but  this  plea  met  with  no  favor  at  all,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  go  alone  to  church,  and  did  not  see 
Clark  again  until  we  met  late  in  the  evening  at 
the  lodging-house. 

It  was  snowing  fast  at  the  end  of  the  service- 
hour,  giving  high  promise  of  abundant  work  in 
the  morning.  On  the  strength  of  it  I  ate  a  fif- 
teen-cent dinner  with  a  twofold  feeling  of  sat- 
isfaction. Then  I  began  a  diligent  search  for 
the  place  of  meeting  of  the  Socialists.  Sunday 
afternoon,  I  had  learned,  was  their  time  of  meet- 


FINDING   STEADY  WORK  97 

ing.  A  knowledge  of  the  place  was  wanting,  but 
only  because  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  to  look 
for  an  announcement  of  it  in  the  newspapers  of 
the  day  before.  And  this  was  wholly  indicative 
of  my  general  frame  of  mind  in  the  connection. 
My  preconceptions  were  strong.  I  had  vision  of 
a  bare,  dimly  lighted  room  in  the  far  recess  of 
an  unfrequented  building,  a  room  reached  by 
dusty  stairs  and  long,  dark  corridors,  closely 
guarded  by  sentries,  whose  duty  was  to  demand 
the  countersign  from  those  who  entered  and  to 
give  warning  of  danger  in  an  emergency,  so  that 
the  inmates  might  escape  by  secret  passages  to 
the  street. 

I  had  made  frequent  inquiries  of  the  men 
whom  I  met,  and  it  was  from  one  of  these  that  I 
learned  that  the  time  was  Sunday  afternoon ;  but 
none  of  them  knew  the  place  nor  seemed  to  take 
the  smallest  interest  in  the  matter.  I  thought 
that  a  policeman  might  be  able  to  put  me  on  the 
track  of  the  meeting,  if  he  chose,  but  then  I 
feared  that  there  were  even  chances  that  he 
would  "  run  me  in  "  as  a  revolutionary,  upon 
hearing  my  request.  I  concluded  that  if  I  should 
be  so  fortunate  as  to  find  the  place,  it  would  be 
by  some  happy  chance;  and  that  if  I  gained  ad- 
mission, it  would  be  by  a  happier  one,  due  largely 
to  my  rough  appearance. 


THE   WORKERS 

I  pictured  this  rude  hall  thronged  with  men, 
grizzled,  bearded  men,  with  eyes  aflame  and  hair 
dishevelled,  listening  in  high  excitement  to  lead- 
ers whose  inflammatory  speeches  lashed  them  into 
fury  against  all  established  order.  Curiosity  kin- 
dled to  liveliest  interest  under  the  free  play  of 
imagination.  In  my  eagerness  I  grew  bolder. 
Repeatedly  I  stopped  workingmen  upon  the 
street,  and  asked  to  be  directed.  No  one  knew, 
until  I  chanced  upon  a  man  who  had  a  vague  sus- 
picion that  the  Socialists  met  in  a  hall  over  a  sa- 
loon somewhere  in  West  Lake  Street. 

I  crossed  the  river  and  passed  under  the  dark- 
steel  framework  of  the  elevated  railway.  The 
snow  was  falling  through  the  still,  sooty  air  in 
heavy  flakes,  which  clung  to  every  exposed  sur- 
face, and  turned  the  street-slime  into  a  dark,  gran- 
ular slush.  It  seemed  to  be  a  region  of  ware- 
houses and  cheap  shops,  but  chiefly  of  saloons; 
scarcely  a  soul  was  to  be  seen  on  the  pavements; 
and  brooding  over  the  long,  deserted  street  was 
the  decorous  quiet  of  Sunday. 

I  quickened  my  pace  to  overtake  three  men  in 
front  of  me.  Before  I  caught  up  with  them  they 
disappeared  through  a  door  which  opened  on  the 
pavement.  It  was  that  of  a  saloon.  The  shades 
were  drawn,  and  the  place,  like  all  the  others 
of  its  kind,  had  every  appearance  of  being  closed 


FINDING   STEADY  WORK  99 

for  the  day.  I  tried  the  door,  and,  finding  it  un- 
locked, followed  the  men  inside.  They  had  al- 
ready mingled  in  a  group  of  workingmen  who 
sat  about  a  large  stove  in  the  far  corner  of  the 
bar-room,  drinking  beer  and  talking  quietly. 

They  did  not  notice  me  until  the  one  of  whom 
I  inquired  appealed  to  the  others  for  some  knowl- 
edge of  the  question.  Then  there  was  a  moment 
of  passing  the  inquiry  from  one  to  another,  until 
a  good-looking  young  workman  spoke  up. 

"  Why,  I  know,"  he  said;  "  I've  just  come 
from  there.  It's  over  in  Waverley  Hall,  corner 
of  Lake  and  Clark." 

"  "Will  you  help  me  to  get  into  the  meeting?  " 
I  asked.  "  I  am  a  stranger  here,  and  I  should 
very  much  like  to  go." 

"  There  ain't  no  trouble,"  he  responded;  "  you 
just  go  up  two  flights  of  steps  from  the  street, 
and  walk  right  in." 

It  was  even  as  he  said.  At  the  level  of  the  first 
landing  was  a  restaurant,  with  a  strikingly  fine 
portrait  of  Burns  near  the  entrance.  My  curi- 
osity was  at  a  high  pitch  when  I  reached  the  sec- 
ond landing.  It  was  ill-lighted,  and  it  opened  first 
into  an  almost  dark  store-room,  in  whose  deep 
recesses  were  great  stacks  of  chairs.  But  a  single 
step  to  the  right  brought  one  to  the  wide-open 
door  of  "Waverley  Hall  and  a  company  of  So- 


100  THE  WORKERS 

cialists  in  full  session.  A  man  sat  beside  the  door 
with  a  small  table  before  him,  on  which  in  neat 
array  were  some  attractive  paper  editions  for  sale. 
My  eye  fell  in  passing  upon  "  The  Fabian  Es- 
says," and  Thorold  Rogers's  "  Six  Centuries  of 
Work  and  Wages,"  and  an  English  version  of 
Schaffle's  "  Quintessence  of  Socialism." 

"  May  I  go  in?  "  I  asked  of  the  man. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  he  replied.  "  Walk  right  in^ 
and  take  any  vacant  seat  you  choose." 

I  thanked  him,  and  walked  up  a  central  aislo 
with  rows  of  seats  on  either  side,  where  sat  from 
two  or  three  hundred  men  and  a  few  women. 
By  the  time  that  I  had  found  a  seat  half  way  to 
the  dais,  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  where  sat  the 
chairman  of  the  meeting,  I  was  already  deeply  in- 
terested in  the  speech  of  a  man  who  stood  facing 
the  company  from  the  side,  with  his  back  against 
the  wall.  Slender  and  of  medium  height,  with 
sandy  hair  slightly  touched  with  gray,  with  an 
expression  of  ready  alertness  on  his  intelligent 
face,  he  was  speaking  fluently  in  good,  well  artic- 
ulated English,  and  with  deep  conviction  his  evi- 
dent inspiration. 

"  What  we  want  is  education,"  he  was  saying; 
"  an  education  which  will  enlighten  the  capital- 
istic class  as  well  as  our  own.  We  serve  no  use- 
ful end  in  denouncing  the  capitalists.  They,  like 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  101 

us,  are  simply  a  product  of  the  competitive  sys- 
tem, and  individually  many  of  them  are  good  and 
generous  men.  But  we  shall  be  furthering  the 
cause  of  Socialism  in  trying  to  show  them  their 
share  of  the  evils  under  which  we  all  live.  How 
that,  for  example,  owing  to  the  present  organiza- 
tion of  society,  in  spite  of  all  the  safeguards 
which  entrench  private  property,  not  even  a  capi- 
talist can  feel  assured  that  his  children  or  grand- 
children may  not  be  beggars  upon  the  streets." 

Such  views,  it  seemed  to  me,  at  least  suggested 
some  catholicity  of  mind  in  "  the  Peddler,"  as 
the  speaker  afterward  declared  himself  to  be. 
When  he  took  his  seat  several  men  were  on  their 
feet  at  once,  appealing  to  the  chair,  and  I  saw 
that  the  meeting  was  well  in  hand,  for  the  chair- 
man instantly  singled  out  one  for  the  privilege 
of  the  floor,  addressing  him  politely  by  name, 
prefixing,  however,  the  title  "  Comrade,"  much 
as  "  Citizen  "  was  used  in  the  French  Revolution 
and  after. 

The  well-grown  muscular,  intelligent  work- 
ingman  was  the  dominant  type  among  them,  but 
the  general  average  in  point  of  respectability  was 
so  high  that  it  gave  to  the  company  rather  the 
appearance  of  a  gathering  of  the  bourgeoisie  than 
of  proletarians.  Had  the  proportion  between 
men  and  women  been  reversed,  without  change 


102  THE   WORKERS 

of  average  status,  I  might  have  been  in  a  prayer- 
meeting.  But  the  prayer-meeting  in  sustaining 
the  resemblance  would  have  been  one  of  marked 
vitality. 

Speeches  were  following  one  another  in  quick 
succession.  Some  were  good  and  some  were 
vapid;  some  were  in  broken  English,  and  others 
were  in  English  more  than  broken ;  but  all  were 
surcharged  with  the  kind  of  earnestness  which 
captivates  attention.  Irresistibly  at  times  one 
was  reminded  of  the  propaganda  of  a  new  faith. 
Much  was  said  the  meaning  of  which  I  could  not 
catch,  but  the  spirit  of  it  all  was  not  far  to  seek. 
Here  there  was  no  cant;  there  was  room  for 
none.  These  men  believed  that  they  had  hold 
of  a  truth  which  is  regenerating  society.  In  the 
face  of  a  world  deep-rooted  in  an  individualistic 
organization  of  industry  and  of  social  order,  they 
preached  a  gospel  of  collectivism,  with  un- 
bounded belief  in  its  ultimate  triumph. 

At  times  there  was  a  malignant  animus  in 
what  they  said,  when  argument  was  enforced 
from  sources  of  personal  experience;  for  men 
would  speak  with  the  intensity  of  feeling  of  those 
who  know  what  hunger  is  and  what  it  is  to  hear 
their  children  cry  for  bread,  while  within  their 
sight  is  the  wasteful  luxury  of  the  rich.  But  a 
certain  earnest  moderateness  of  speech  was  far 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  103 

more  common,  and  it  sometimes  revealed  a 
breadth  of  view  and  an  acquaintance  with  eco- 
nomics which  to  me  were  astonishing. 

Yet,  after  all,  it  was  the  personal  note  that 
they  touched  most  effectively  in  what  they  said. 
Strong,  sturdy  men,  with  every  mark  upon  them 
of  workmanlike  efficiency,  spoke  feelingly  of  the 
relation,  which  they  said,  was  growing  up  between 
what  they  called  "  the  two  great  classes  of  soci- 
ety," the  employing  and  the  employed.  They 
declared  the  wage-earner  essentially  a  "  wage- 
slave  "  under  present  conditions,  and  they  con- 
trasted his  lot  unfavorably  with  that  of  an  actual 
bondsman.  The  chattel-slave,  they  said,  his  mas- 
ter buys  outright,  and  having  made  him  thus  a 
part  of  his  invested  capital,  he  shields  him,  out 
of  a  purely  selfish  motive,  it  is  true,  yet  shields 
him,  from  bodily  harm.  But  not  the  body  of  an 
industrial  slave,  merely  his  capacity  for  work,  his 
employer  buys,  and  he  may  drive  him  to  the  ex- 
haustion of  his  last  power  of  endurance,  know- 
ing perfectly  well  that,  should  he  wreck  him 
physically,  the  labor-market  would  instantly  sup- 
ply a  hundred  men  eager  to  take  the  vacant  place 
on  the  same  terms.  And  it  is  little  relief  to  the 
feelings  of  the  wage-slave,  they  added,  to  be  as- 
sured that  he  is  not  sold,  but  is  free  to  sell  his 
labor  in  the  open  market,  when  he  recalls  the 


104  THE   WORKERS 

hard  necessity  that  conditions  that  freedom.  It 
was  interesting  to  find  them  paraphrasing,  as  Old 
Pete  had  done  in  the  logging  camp,  the  dictum  of 
Carlyle — 

"  Liberty,  I  am  told,  is  a  divine  thing.  Lib- 
erty, when  it  becomes  the  liberty  to  die  by  star- 
vation, is  not  so  divine." 

Then,  as  an  expression  of  the  belief  of  the 
gathering,  a  member  introduced  a  resolution, 
which  pronounced  it  to  be  a  truth  in  the  relation, 
of  the  individual  to  society,  that  "  in  case  a  man, 
acting  upon  the  theory  that  society  owes  him  a 
living,  should  refuse  to  work,  and  should  steal, 
he  would  be  a  criminal,  and  ought  to  be  deprived 
of  his  personal  liberty  and  be  forced  to  work. 
But  in  case  a  man,  acting  upon  the  theory  that 
society  owes  him  a  chance  to  earn  a  living,  should 
find  no  opportunity,  and  should,  therefore,  be 
forced  to  steal,  society  would  be  the  criminal,  and 
ought  to  furnish  the  remedy." 

The  resolution  was  passed  unanimously  and 
with  much  show  of  approval.  But  I  was  more 
interested  in  its  introducer.  He  was  a  curious 
departure  from  the  prevailing  type;  short  and 
straight  and  slender,  with  a  small,  thin  face 
whose  skin  was  like  old,  exquisite,  wrinkled 
parchment.  His  bright  eyes,  set  close  together, 
moved  ceaselessly  as  though  sensitive  to  a  certain 


FINDING  STEADY    WORK  105 

mental  restlessness;  a  thin  aquiline  nose  curved 
delicately  in  the  nostrils  above  a  gray  mustache 
which  half  concealed  a  thin-lipped  mouth  of  un- 
certain drawing.  Over  all  was  a  really  fine, 
dome-like  brow,  quite  bald  and  polished,  while 
from  the  sides  and  back  of  his  head  there  grew  a 
mass  of  iron-gray  hair  which  fell  curling  to  his 
shoulders.  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  calling  him 
"  the  Poet."  There  was  a  nervous  grace  in  his 
movements,  and  a  thorough  self-possession  in  his 
manner,  and  a  quality  of  cultivation  and  refine- 
ment in  his  voice  and  speech,  which  were  clearly 
indicative  of  breeding  and  education  and  of  na- 
tive talent.  Yet  his  position  among  the  Socialists 
seemed  not  at  all  that  of  a  distinctive  leader;  he 
was  simply  one  of  the  company,  on  terms  of  per- 
fect equality,  and  he  addressed  the  others  and 
was  himself  addressed  with  the  fraternal  "  Com- 
rade "  in  all  the  intimacy  of  primitive  Christian- 
ity. It  was  with  instant  anticipation  of  the  pleas- 
ure of  it  that  I  learned  from  the  announcements 
that  the  Poet  would  read,  in  an  early  meeting,  a 
paper  on  the  burning  question  of  the  opening  of 
the  World's  Fair  on  Sundays. 

A  woman  sat  near  the  front.  I  had  seen  her 
in  frequent  whispered  consultation  with  the  chair- 
man, whom  I  shall  call  "  the  Leader,"  and  with 
the  Poet  and  the  Peddler  and  other  members  who 


1UO  THE   WORKERS 

sat  about  her,  and  I  judged  that  she  was  high  in 
the  councils  of  the  Socialists,  and  I  shall  name  her 
"  the  Citizeness." 

In  the  midst  of  the  applause  which  marked  the 
passage  of  the  resolution,  she  was  on  her  feet — a 
dark,  portly  woman  of  middle  age,  dressed  very 
simply  in  black,  bearing  herself  with  an  air  of 
accustomedness  which  showed  that  she  was  by  no 
means  a  novice  on  the  floor,  and  speaking,  when 
quiet  was  restored,  with  a  directness  and  an  un- 
affected ease  which  had  in  them  no  loss  of  femi- 
ninity. But  you  had  only  to  watch  closely  in 
order  to  see  nature  avenge  herself  in  a  certain 
self-assertation  which  the  Citizeness  felt  forced 
at  times  to  assume,  for  the  sake  of  emphasis,  and 
in  a  certain  very  feminine  straining  after  the 
sarcastic. 

She  held  a  newspaper  in  her  hand,  and  from 
it,  she  said,  she  wished  to  read  a  fragment  of  a 

speech  made  by  Mr. to  a  large  gathering  of 

his  subordinates  in  the  administration  of  a  railway 
system  of  which  he  is  the  president. 

It  was  a  short  paragraph,  in  the  characteristic, 
oratorical  English  of  that  genial  railway  presi- 
dent when  he  becomes  serious,  and  its  purport 
was  simply  a  charge  to  those  who  bear  to  work- 
ingmen  the  relation  of  authoritative  direction 
to  treat  them  with  the  utmost  consideration. 


«  B 

HH 

•«!  Z 

S  o 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  107 

"  These  are  anxious  times,"  he  said,  substantially, 
"  and  there  are  grave  indications  which  go  to 
show  that  workingmen  are  increasingly  regard- 
ing themselves  as  a  class  apart  and  their  interests 
as  being  antagonized  by  those  of  their  employers. 
All  employers  and  directors  of  labor  in  all  per- 
sonal contact  with  their  men  should,  therefore, 
exercise  the  greatest  care  in  their  treatment  of 
them,  to  the  end  that  these  men  may  not  be 
made  to  feel  unnecessarily  what  is  distasteful  to 
them  in  their  condition  of  subordination." 

"  That,"  said  the  Citizeness,  "  is  a  significant 
sign  of  the  times.  I  have  rarely  seen  words  which 
indicate  more  clearly  the  growing  frame  of  mind 
of  the  capitalists.  They  are  beginning  to  wake 
up  to  the  fact  of  danger.  Oh,  yes,  when  it  begins 
to  be  a  question  of  self-preservation  they  show 
signs  of  some  knowledge  of  the  actual  situation ! 

But  just  see  how  foxy  they  are.    Mr. does 

not  tell  his  fellow-employers  to  treat  their  men 
well  because  they  ought  to,  and  he  doesn't  talk 
any  foolishness  about  the  interests  of  labor  and 
capital  being  identical.  He  knows  better  than 
that.  He  knows  perfectly  well  that  the  men  in 
the  employ  of  his  corporation  are  wage-slaves. 
He  knows  it  a  good  deal  better  than  most  of  the 
men  themselves  know  it.  And  what  he  is  telling 
his  fellow-capitalists,  who  are  beginning  to  feel 


108  THE   WORKERS 

alarm  over  the  situation,  is  this,  that  in  all  their 
treatment  of  their  men  they  must  make  a  point 
of  disguising  from  them  their  real  condition  of 
servitude.  Keep  them  in  servitude,  of  course, 
but  by  all  possible  means  keep  them  in  ignorance 
of  it,  for  the  greatest  danger  to  the  existing  order 
of  things  lies  in  an  awakening  of  workingmen, 
and  already  there  are  signs  of  such  an  awakening, 
and  *  the  times '  are,  therefore,  *  anxious/  ' 

Tumultuous  applause  followed  this  sally.  It 
expressed  the  prevalent  thought  as  no  word  of 
the  afternoon  had  done.  "  Capital  conspiring  to 
maintain  the  existing  bondage  of  labor — grow- 
ing anxious  at  symptoms  of  dawning  intelligence 
among  its  slaves,  and  disclosing,  in  a  moment  of 
unguarded  anxiety,  its  real  spirit  through  a 
feigned  one !  "  "  What  clearer  proof  of  the 
truth  could  be  asked  ? "  men  seemed  to  say,  as 
they  looked  eagerly  into  one  another's  faces,  and 
kept  on  applauding. 

Before  the  noise  subsided  the  Peddler  again 
had  gained  the  floor.  He  harked  back  to  his  orig- 
inal theme  of  "  education,"  and  was  showing  its 
applicability  to  the  situation  from  the  new  point 
of  view. 

"  The  greatest  obstacle  to  Socialism,"  he  ex- 
claimed, with  some  vehemence,  "is  the  brute 
ignorance  among  ourselves,  the  working-classes. 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  109 

And  the  greatest  bulwark  of  the  cruel,  crushing, 
competitive  anarchy  under  which  we  suffer  and 
die  is  this  same  ignorance  of  the  workers.  It  is 
not  organized  capital  that  blocks  the  way  of  So- 
cialism, for  organized  capital  is  unconsciously 
hastening  the  day  when  all  capital  will  be  organ- 
ized under  the  common  ownership  of  all  the  peo- 
ple. It  is  the  dead  weight  of  poor,  blinded,  be- 
fooled wage-slaves  which  hangs  like  an  incubus 
about  the  neck  of  Socialism.  It  is  through  this 
that  the  truth  must  make  its  way,  and  will  make 
its  way,  until  workingmen  at  last  awake  to  an 
acceptance  of  that  which  so  long  has  been  striv- 
ing with  them  to  get  itself  accepted. 

"But  alas!  alas!  how  slow  the  process  is! 
And  through  what  density  of  ignorance  and  in- 
difference and  prejudice  must  the  light  shine! 

"  Sitting  in  the  street-car  beside  me,  as  I  rode 
down  this  afternoon,  was  a  workingman  whom  I 
know  well.  I  invited  him  to  come  to  this  meet- 
ing with  me.  I  told  him  that  we  were  going  to 
talk  about  matters  which  concerned  him  deeply. 
And  what  did  he  say?  Why,  he  laughed  in  my 
face,  and  said  that  he  did  not  see  much  sense  in 
talking  about  such  things,  and  that  he  preferred 
putting  in  his  Sunday  afternoon  at  the  '  mat- 
in-ee/  and  having  a  good  laugh.  Poor,  miserable 
wretch!  working  like  a  galley-slave  through  the 


110  THE   WORKERS 

week,  and  caring  for  nothing  on  his  day  of  rest 
but  an  extra  allowance  of  sleep,  and  then  further 
forgetf ulness  of  his  daily  lot  in  the  crowds  and 
the  lights  and  the  illusions  and  heart-breaking 
fun  of  the  cheap  theatres.  All  that  remains  for 
him  then  is  to  go  home  drunk,  and  get  up  the  next 
morning  to  the  twofold  hell  of  his  common  life." 

It  was  growing  dark  within  the  hall,  and  the 
meeting  was  quietly  adjourned  until  the  next 
Sunday.  But  the  members  were  slow  in  leaving. 
They  formed  into  small  groups,  and  went  on  dis- 
cussing earnestly  the  topics  of  the  afternoon,  as 
they  stood  among  the  benches,  or  moved  slowly 
toward  the  door. 

The  street-lights  were  burning  with  flickering, 
dancing  effect  through  the  falling  snow,  and 
under  them  great  crowds  of  working-j>eople  came 
streaming  through  the  wide-open  doors  of  the 
theatres,  swarming  upon  the  pavements  and  in 
the  street-cars,  well-dressed,  and  quiet  in  the  pre- 
occupation of  pleasure-seekers  homeward  bound, 
and  not  a  little  impatient  for  early  transportation. 

I  walked  alone  in  the  direction  of  the  lodging- 
house.  Deep  is  the  spell  of  real  conviction,  and 
the  thoughts  of  these  working-people,  all  alive 
with  belief,  were  passing  warm  and  glowing 
through  my  mind.  That  there  are  multitudes  of 
workers  who  are  looking  earnestly  for  a  better  so- 


FINDING   STEADY    WORK  111 

cial  order,  and  who  intelligently  and  firmly  be- 
lieve in  its  possibility,  I  had  known,  but  never 
before  had  I  felt  the  inspiration  of  actual  contact 
with  them. 

And  the  fascination  of  their  point  of  view! 
"  A  world  full  of  want  and  misery  and  cruelty, 
by  reason,  most  of  all,  of  the  wasteful  war  of 
competition  between  man  and  his  brother  man  in 
the  wilderness  of  anarchical  production  in  which 
the  people  blindly  wander;  while  over  against 
them,  awaiting  their  occupation,  is  a  promised 
land  of  peace  and  plenty,  where  poverty  and 
want,  and  their  attendant  miseries  and  tendencies 
to  moral  evil,  will  be  unknown,  if  men  can  but 
be  induced  to  cross  the  Jordan  which  separates 
lawless  competition  from  intelligent  and  provi- 
dent co-operation." 

How  quick  and  sure  is  such  an  appeal  to 
the  human  heart!  It  is  the  world-old  charm, 
charming  men  anew.  A  royal  road  at  last, 
a  wide  gate  and  a  broad  way  leading  unto 
life!  The  way  of  salvation  made  easy!  It  is  the 
Patriarchs  again  trusting  to  their  sacrifices;  the 
old  Jews  to  circumcision  and  the  blood  of  Abra- 
ham; the  spiritually  blinded  Christians  to  their 
outward  symbols;  and  all  of  them  deaf  to  that 
truest  word  of  all  philosophy,  "  The  kingdom  of 
heaven  is  within  you." 


112  THE   WORKERS 

It  is  so  easy  to  conceive  of  some  change  in  out- 
ward conditions,  some  "  remedy,"  some  "  solu- 
tion "  for  the  ills  from  which  we  suffer,  and 
which,  having  been  accepted,  would  lift  life  to 
a  plane  of  harmonious  and  f  rictionless  movement, 
and  set  us  free  henceforth  to  follow  our  own  wills 
and  purposes  and  desires.  And  it  is  so  supremely 
difficult  to  realize  that  the  way  of  life  lies  not  that 
way  at  all,  not  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness  nor  in 
the  fulfilment  of  our  own  wills,  but  in  realizing 
that  the  universe  is  governed  by  laws  of  right  and 
justice  and  truth,  and  in  bringing  our  wills  into 
subjection  to  those  laws  and  our  actions  into  har- 
mony with  them. 

One  of  these  laws,  I  take  it,  is  the  law  "  the 
universal  brotherhood  of  man."  And  it  is  by 
the  practical  denial  of  this  law  in  the  dealing  of 
men  with  their  fellow-men  that  much  of  the 
world's  cruelest  misery  has  been  caused,  and 
much  of  the  seed  of  terrible  retribution  has  been 
sown. 

It  was  their  firm  belief  in  the  truth  of  brother- 
hood which  gave  to  the  words  of  the  Socialists 
their  greatest  strength  and  charm.  It  was  plainly 
fundamental  to  all  their  views.  Ignorance  and 
prejudice  and  unphilosophical  thinking  warped 
their  expressed  ideas  and  made  their  speeches 
very  human,  but  yet  in  them  all  was  this  saving 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  113 

hold  on  trutK,  a  living  belief  in  the  solidarity  of 
the  human  race  and  in  the  responsibilities  which 
grow  out  of  the  bond  of  universal  kinship. 

At  the  corner  near  my  lodging-house  I  stood 
still  for  a  few  moments  watching  the  deft  move- 
ments of  two  young  children  who  were  busy  near 
the  curb.  The  long,  wide  street  lay  a  field  of 
glistening  diamonds  where  the  blue-white  elec- 
tric light  was  reflected  from  the  snow.  A 
drunken  man  reeled  past  me,  tracking  the  un- 
trodden snow  at  the  sides  of  the  beaten  path  along 
the  centre  of  the  pavement.  A  dim  alley  at  my 
right  lost  itself  in  almost  impenetrable  darkness, 
on  the  verge  of  which  a  small  wooden  house  ap- 
peared tottering  to  ruin  and  as  though  the  weight 
of  the  falling  snow  were  hastening  its  end.  From 
out  the  alley  came  the  figures  of  three  young 
women  who  were  laughing  gayly  as  they  crossed 
the  street  in  company  and  walked  on  toward  the 
post-office.  The  street  was  very  still  and  lonely 
for  that  quarter,  and  the  two  little  girls  worked 
diligently,  talking  to  each  other,  but  oblivious 
apparently  to  everything  but  their  task.  I  drew 
nearer  to  see  what  they  were  doing.  A  street- 
light shone  strong  and  clear  above  them,  and  they 
were  in  the  path  of  a  broad  stream  of  yellow  glare 
that  poured  from  the  windows  of  a  cheap  chop- 
house.  They  were  at  work  about  a  barrel  which 


114  THE  WORKERS 

stood  on  the  curb.  I  could  see  that  it  was  full  of 
the  refuse  of  the  eating-house.  Scraps  of  meat 
and  half-eaten  fragments  of  bread  and  of  veg- 
etables lay  mixed  with  bones  and  egg-shells  and 
vegetable  skins  in  a  pulpy  ooze,  rising  to  the  bar- 
rel rim  and  overflowing  upon  the  pavement  and 
in  the  gutter.  An  old  wicker  basket,  with  paper 
covering  its  ragged  holes,  rested  between  the 
children,  and  into  this  they  dropped  selected  mor- 
sels of  food.  The  larger  girl  was  tall  enough  to 
see  over  the  top  of  the  barrel,  and  so  she  worked 
there,  and  I  saw  her  little  hands  dive  into  the 
soft,  glutinous  mass  after  new  treasures.  The 
smaller  one  could  only  crouch  upon  the  pave- 
ment and  gather  thence  and  from  the  gutter  what 
edible  fragments  she  could  find.  I  watched  them 
closely.  The  older  child  was  dressed  in  thin, 
ragged  cotton,  black  with  filth,  and  her  matted, 
stringy  hair  fell  from  her  uncovered  head  about 
a  lean,  peaked  face  that  was  as  dirty  almost  as 
her  dress.  She  wore  both  shoes  and  stockings, 
but  the  shoes  were  far  too  large  for  her,  and 
through  their  gaping  holes  the  cold  and  wet  en- 
tered freely.  Her  sister  was  more  interesting  to 
me.  She  was  a  child  of  four  or  five.  The  snow 
was  falling  upon  her  bare  brown  curls  and  upon 
the  soft  white  flesh  of  her  neck,  and  over  the 
damp,  clinging,  threadbare  dress,  through  which 


"DON'T  YOU  TOUCH  IT!  "  SHE  SAID,  FIERCELY. 


FINDING    STEADY   WORK  115 

I  could  trace  the  delicate  outlines  of  an  infant's 
figure.  Her  warm  breath  passed  hissing  through 
chattering  teeth  in  the  intervals  between  out- 
bursts of  a  deep,  hoarse  cough  which  shook  her 
frame.  Through  the  streaking  dirt  upon  her 
hands  appeared  in  childish  movement  the  dimples 
above  the  knuckles,  and  the  dainty  fingers,  red 
and  cold  and  washed  clean  at  their  tips  in  the 
melting  snow,  had  in  them  all  the  power  and 
mystery  of  the  waxen  baby  touch. 

With  the  quick  illusion  of  childhood  they 
had  turned  their  task  into  a  game,  and  they 
would  break  into  exclamations  of  delight  as  they 
held  up  to  each  other's  view  some  discovered 
morsel  which  the  finder  claimed  to  be  the  best. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  these 
scraps?  "  I  asked  of  the  older  child. 

Her  bloodless  lips  were  trembling  with  the 
cold,  and  her  small,  dark  eyes  appeared  among 
the  shreds  of  tangled  hair  with  an  expression  in 
them  of  a  starved  pariah  whose  cherished  bone  is 
threatened.  She  clasped  the  basket  with  both 
hands  and  half  covered  it  with  her  little  body. 

"  Don't  you  touch  it!  "  she  said,  fiercely,  while 
her  anxious  eyes  searched  the  street  in  hope  of 
succor. 

It  was  easy  to  reassure  her,  and  then  she  spoke 
freely. 


116  THE   WORKERS 

"  Ma  sent  us  to  get  some  grub  for  supper,"  she 
explained.  "  Ma's  got  three  boarders,  only  two 
of  'em  ain't  paid  nothing  for  a  month,  and  pa,  he's 
drunk.  He  ain't  got  no  job,  but  he  went  out  to 
shovel  snow  to-day,  and  ma  thought  he'd  bring 
her  some  money,  but  he  came  home  drunk. 
She's  mindin'  the  baby,  and  she  sent  us  for  grub. 
She'd  lick  us  if  we  didn't  find  none ;  but  I  guess 
she  won't  lick  us  now,  will  she?  That's  where 
we  live,"  and  one  little  chapped  finger  pointed 
down  the  alley  to  the  crumbling  hovel  in  the 
dark. 

The  children  were  ready  to  go  home,  and  I 
lifted  the  younger  girl  into  my  arms.  Her  sister 
walked  beside  us  with  the  basket  in  her  hand. 
The  little  one  lay  soft  and  warm  against  me. 
After  the  first  moment  of  surprise,  she  had  re- 
laxed with  the  gentle  yielding  of  a  little  child, 
and  I  could  feel  her  nestle  close  to  me  with  the 
trustful  ease  which  thrills  one's  inmost  heart  with 
feeling  for  which  there  are  no  words. 

We  opened  the  shanty  door.  It  was  difficult 
at  first  to  make  out  the  room's  interior.  Dense 
banks  of  tobacco-smoke  drifted  lazily  through 
foul  air  in  the  cheerful  light  of  a  small  oil-lamp. 
Shreds  of  old  wall-paper  hung  from  dark,  greasy 
plaster,  which  was  crumbling  from  the  walls 
and  ceiling  and  which  lay  in  accumulations  of 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  117 

lime-dust  upon  a  rotting  wooden  floor.  A 
baby  of  pallid,  putty  flesh,  was  crying  fretfully 
in  the  arms  of  a  haggard,  slatternly  woman  of 
less  than  thirty  years,  who  sat  in  a  broken  chair, 
rocking  the  baby  in  her  arms  beside  a  dirty 
wooden  table,  on  which  were  strewn  fragments 
of  broken  pottery  and  unwashed  forks  and  spoons 
and  knives.  A  rough  workman,  stripped  to  his 
shirt  and  trousers,  sat  smoking  a  clay  pipe,  his 
bare  feet  resting  in  the  oven  of  a  rusty  cooking- 
stove  in  which  a  fire  was  smouldering.  Upon  a 
heap  of  rags  in  one  corner  lay  a  drunken  man 
asleep. 

"  We've  got  some  grub,  ma!  "  cried  the  older 
child,  in  a  tone  of  success,  as  she  ran  up  to  her 
mother  with  the  basket.  "  Biley's  barrel  was  full 
to-night." 


In  the  continued  search  for  work  through  the 
succeeding  day  it  was  natural  to  drift  early  into 
the  employment  bureaus.  Clark  and  I  made  a 
careful  round  of  these,  he  in  search  of  employ- 
ment at  his  trade  and  I  of  any  job  that  offered. 
Here,  too,  however,  we  were  but  units  in  the 
great  number  of  seekers.  Some  of  the  agencies 
offered  for  a  small  fee  and  a  nominal  price  of 
transportation  to  ship  us  to  the  farther  "West  or 


118  THE   WORKERS 

to  the  Northwest  and  insure  us  employment  with 
gangs  of  day-laborers,  but  of  work  in  Chicago 
they  could  promise  none. 

In  the  course  of  a  day  last  week,  as  I  was  going 
about  alone,  I  was  attracted  by  the  prominent 
sign  of  an  employment  bureau,  on  the  "West 
Side,  whiph  we  had  not  visited  so  far.  It  was  the 
conventional  bureau,  much  like  the  office  of  a 
steamship  company.  It  occupied  the  floor  above 
the  basement,  reached  by  a  flight  of  steps  from 
the  pavement;  a  row  of  wooden  chairs  stood 
along  the  outer  wall;  a  wooden  partition  ex- 
tended down  the  centre  of  the  room,  with  a  door 
and  two  windows  in  it.  The  hour  was  noon  and 
the  office  was  deserted  but  for  a  comparatively 
young  man  of  florid  face  and  close-set,  light- 
brown  eyes,  thin  hair,  and  a  bristling  mustache 
clipped  close  above  his  mouth.  He  was  at  work 
upon  his  books  behind  one  of  the  windows. 
With  a  direct,  matter-of-fact  glance  he  looked 
me  over,  and  then  his  eye  sought  the  place  on  the 
open  page  held  by  his  finger. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you? "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  looking  for  work,"  I  said.  "  Have  you 
any  employment  to  offer?  " 

"What  kind  of  work?" 

"  I  am  a  day-laborer,"  I  replied. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said,  laconically,  and  his  eye 


-     - 

-S     •* 

5    si 


FINDING   STEADY  WORK  119 

followed  the  finger  as  it  moved  across  the  open 
page. 

I  waited  for  a  moment,  thinking  that  he  might 
say  more,  but  he  remained  silent  at  his  work. 

"  If  not  in  Chicago,  perhaps  you  can  put  me 
in  the  way  of  work  near  here,"  I  ventured. 

"  Young  man,"  he  said,  and  his  clear,  cold 
eyes  were  looking  straight  into  mine,  "  Young 
man,  we  can't  get  enough  of  you  fellows  in  the 
spring  and  summer  time;  we  have  to  go  to  you 
and  beg  you  to  go  to  work.  You're  mighty  inde- 
pendent then,  and  you  don't  give  a  damn  for  us. 
But  it's  our  turn  now.  You  can  do  some  begging 
now  and  see  how  you  like  it.  It's  good  enough 
for  you.  No,  there  ain't  a  job  that  I  know  of  in 
Chicago  that  you  can  get,  unless  it  is  in  the 
sewers,  and  you  ain't  fit  for  that." 

"  But  give  me  a  chance  at  it,"  I  urged. 

"  I  wouldn't  take  the  responsibility,"  he  an- 
swered. "  It  would  kill  a  man  of  your  build  in 
a  week,  and  you  couldn't  pass  the  first  inspection, 
anyway."  And  so  ended  my  efforts  through  the 
employment  agencies. 

The  newspapers  are  always  an  unfailing  resort, 
as  a  hopeful  source  of  information  of  any  demand 
for  labor.  A  newspaper  in  the  very  early  morn- 
ing, before  the  city  is  astir,  is  a  treasure,  for  any 
clew  to  work  can  then  be  promptly  followed  up 


120  THE    WORKERS 

with  some  chance  of  one's  being  the  first  to  apply. 
Papers  are  to  be  had  in  abundance  later  in  the 
day  in  public  reading-rooms  and  about  railway- 
stations  and  hotel-corridors.  It  is,  however,  the 
newspaper  damp  from  press  that  is  most  valuable 
to  us,  and  between  us  and  its  possession  is  often 
the  insuperable  barrier  of  its  price.  The  journals 
which  early  post  their  issues  upon  bulletin-boards 
are  public  benefactors,  and  about  these  boards  in 
the  early  dawn  often  there  are  groups  of  men  who 
study  closely  the  "  want  columns." 

A  very  little  experience  was  enough  to  disclose 
the  fact  that  there  is  a  wide  difference  in  the 
character  of  these  notices  in  different  newspapers. 
In  some  issues  the  want-column  is  very  short,  but 
the  statements  bear  every  mark  of  genuineness; 
in  others  it  is  promisingly  long,  but,  when  care- 
fully analyzed,  it  proves  to  be  chiefly  a  collection 
of  decoys  for  the  unwary.  The  city  seems  to  be 
full  of  men  and  women  seeking  employment. 
Not  only  are  there  the  penniless  common  work- 
men of  my  class,  whose  number  must  be  reck- 
oned in  many  thousands,  and  among  whom  the 
professionally  idle  form,  of  course,  a  large  per- 
centage, but  there  are  multitudes  of  mechanics 
and  skilled  workers,  of  whom  Clark  is  a  type. 
And  beyond  these  is  an  army  of  seekers  after 
salaried  posts  like  those  of  clerks  and  bookkeepers 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  121 

and  the  various  subordinate  positions  of  business 
and  professional  life.  Not  all  were  penniless 
when  they  began  their  search  for  work  there. 
Hundreds  of  them  had  a  little  store  of  money 
when  their  last  employment  gave  out,  or  they 
brought  with  them  when  they  came  their  savings, 
which  they  hopefully  counted  upon  to  last  until 
a  new  place  had  been  found. 

How  large  a  body  of  sharpers  live  by  preying 
upon  the  credulity  of  these  classes  it  would  be 
difficult  to  discover,  as  it  also  would  be  difficult 
to  discover  all  the  tricks  of  their  trade.  The  craft 
of  the  bunco-steerers  is  certainly  well  known,  and 
yet  it  perennially  finds  its  victims,  and  largely,  no 
doubt,  among  the  classes  of  whom  I  am  speaking. 
But  there  are  other  snares,  less  sudden  but  quite 
as  disastrous  as  those  of  the  bunco-steerers,  and 
far  more  insidious,  since  they  have  about  them 
the  apparent  sanction  of  legitimate  business.  It 
is  these  that  make  most  open  use  of  the  want- 
columns  of  certain  of  the  newspapers.  Agencies 
are  advertised,  and  in  them,  after  the  payment 
of  a  small  fee  and  the  purchase  of  the  needed  out- 
fit, large  earnings  are  guaranteed  as  the  result  of 
putting  some  product  upon  the  market.  Oppor- 
tunities are  offered  for  the  investment  of  a  little 
capital — sums  as  low  as  five  and  ten  dollars  are 
solicited — and  immense  returns  are  promised. 


122  THE   WORKERS 

Requests  for  men  are  made  in  urgent  terms: 
"  Wanted — three — five — seven  men  at  once. 
Steady  employment  guaranteed;  good  pay.  No 
previous  experience  necessary.  Apply  at  No.  — 
Street,  second  floor  front." 

One  morning  I  marked  a  dozen  or  more  of 
these  notices  in  one  newspaper,  and  carefully 
made  the  rounds  of  the  addresses  given.  In 
every  case  I  found  an  establishment  which  pur- 
ported to  do  business  at  coloring  photographs.  I 
was  offered  employment  in  each  instance.  The 
conditions  were  as  uniform  as  those  governing  a 
regular  market.  Two  dollars  was  the  invariable 
fee  for  being  taught  the  secret  of  the  process. 
One  dollar  would  purchase  the  needed  materials. 

There  was  always  a  strong  demand,  enough  to 
insure  abundant  work  until  spring.  "  Our  agents 
are  sending  in  large  orders  all  the  time,"  was  the 
conventional  explanation.  "  You  can  soon  learn 
to  color  ten  or  twelve  photographs  in  a  day,  and 
we  will  pay  you  at  the  rate  of  three  dollars  a 
dozen  for  them."  The  discovery  that  I  had  no 
money  invariably  brought  the  interview  abrupt- 
ly to  an  end  in  an  atmosphere  which  cooled  sud- 
denly. I  met  many  actual  victims  of  these  de- 
vices; one  will  serve  as  a  type. 

We  both  had  been  sitting  for  some  time  on  a 
crowded  bench  in  the  lobby  of  a  lodging-house. 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  123 

Each  was  absorbed  in  his  own  "  bitterness,"  and 
oblivious  to  the  presence  of  other  men  and  to  the 
tumult  of  the  room.  My  companion  was  cheer- 
fully responsive  when  I  spoke  to  him,  and  we 
both  accepted  gladly  the  relief  of  an  interchange 
of  confidence.  He  was  three  days  beyond  the 
end  of  his  resources.  So  far  he  had  been  fortu- 
nate in  securing  the  cost  of  food  and  the  price  of 
a  ten-cent  lodging,  and  had  not  yet  been  forced 
to  the  station-house.  But  on  that  evening,  for 
the  first  time,  he  had  learned  of  the  station  lodg- 
ing. It  loomed  for  him  as  the  logic  of  events, 
and  he  dreaded  it.  It  was  of  this  that  he  was 
thinking  gloomily  when  I  spoke  to  him. 

Born  and  bred  in  the  country,  he  had  grown 
up  in  ignorance,  not  of  hard,  honest  work,  nor 
altogether  of  books,  but  of  the  world.  He  had 
lived  at  home  and  worked  on  his  father's  farm 
and  attended  the  winter  sessions  of  the  district 
school  until  he  was  sixteen,  when  his  father  and 
mother  died,  and  the  farm  and  all  of  their  posses- 
sions were  sold  to  pay  the  mortgage,  and  he  wa3 
left  penniless.  Then  he  worked  for  other  farm- 
ers for  two  years,  and  studied  as  best  he  could. 
Finally  he  secured  a  "  second-grade  certificate  " 
to  teach  school,  and  he  had  taught  in  the  winter 
sessions  for  two  years,  working  as  a  farm-hand 
through  the  summers. 


124  THE   WORKERS 

His  coming  to  Chicago  was  a  stroke  of  am- 
bition. A  post  as  a  salesman  or  a  bookkeeper 
could  be  got,  he  had  felt  sure,  if  he  was  persistent 
enough  in  his  search,  and  this,  he  thought,  would 
serve  him  as  a  starting-point  to  a  business  career. 
He  had  counted  upon  a  long,  hard  search  for 
place,  and  so  he  had  come  forearmed  with  his  sav- 
ings, which,  when  he  reached  Chicago,  more  than 
two  months  before  this  evening,  amounted  to  a 
little  over  fifty  dollars  when  he  found  himself 
in  lodgings  in  a  decent  flat  on  Division  Street. 

He  paid  at  first  two  dollars  a  week  for  a  room 
which  contained  a  bed  and  bureau  and  a  wash- 
stand,  and  which  was  warmed  by  a  small  oil- 
stove.  There  was  a  strip  of  carpet  on  the  floor, 
and  a  shade  at  the  window  which  looked  out  upon 
an  alley  and  the  blank  brick  wall  of  a  house  oppo- 
site. The  bed-linen  was  changed  once  in  two 
weeks.  In  addition  to  that  outlay  he  was  spend- 
ing, on  an  average,  fifty  cents  a  day  for  food  and 
an  occasional  dime  in  car-fare.  All  this  was  lux- 
ury. His  last  lodging,  before  he  was  forced  upon 
the  street,  was  a  seventy-five-cent  closet  in  a  house 
on  Meridian  Street,  on  the  West  Side.  The  room 
contained  a  cot  with  an  old  mattress  and  some 
blankets,  and  there  was  a  soap-box  on  end  which 
would  hold  a  lamp.  He  was  obliged  to  wash  him- 
self at  the  sink  in  the  public  passage. 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  125 

There  had  been  an  analogous  change  in  the 
range  of  employment  sought.  All  idea  of  a  mer- 
cantile post  had  been  at  last  abandoned,  and  he 
was  in  for  any  honest  living  to  which  his  hands 
could  help  him. 

It  was  when  he  had  broken  his  last  five-dollar 
note  that  he  made  once  more  the  rounds  of  the 
doubtful  offices  which  offer  work.  A  photograph- 
coloring  establishment  was  his  final  choice.  He 
paid  the  fee  of  two  dollars,  received  the  instruc- 
tions, which  were  very  simple,  purchased  for  a 
dollar  a  box  of  materials,  accepted  half  a  dozen 
photographs  to  begin  upon,  and  then  went  to  his 
room  with  his  mind  made  up  to  succeed  at  the 
work  if  there  was  any  success  in  it. 

With  utmost  patience  and  care  he  practised 
upon  the  pictures.  Difficulties  in  the  process 
arose  against  which  he  had  not  been  warned.  He 
went  for  further  instructions  and  was  given  them 
willingly.  After  nearly  three  days  of  almost  con- 
stant industry  he  finished  the  six  photographs. 
These  were  to  yield  him  a  dollar  and  a  half,  and 
he  took  them  with  a  sense  of  achievement  to  the 
office.  His  employer  examined  them  and  good- 
naturedly  pointed  out  certain  defects  which  he 
was  asked  to  remedy.  The  remedy  seemed  sim- 
ple, but  he  saw  at  a  glance  that,  in  reality,  it 
would  require  his  undoing  practically  all  his 


126  THE   WORKERS 

work  and  performing  it  over  again,  at  a  great 
risk  of  ruining  the  photographs  in  the  attempt. 

He  thought  that  he  saw  an  escape  from  that, 
so  he  proposed  to  his  employer  that  the  alterations 
should  be  made  at  the  establishment;  that  he 
himself  should  be  paid  nothing  for  the  first  work, 
but  that  he  should  be  given  a  second  lot  of  pict- 
ures to  color.  The  man  agreed  instantly,  and 
handed  to  him  a  fresh  package  containing  half  a 
dozen  photographs.  These  he  carried  back  to  his 
room.  When  he  undid  the  wrapper  he  found 
that  he  had  been  given  a  job  which  would  require 
at  least  a  week  to  finish.  Each  photograph  was 
unlike  the  others.  Besides  one  or  two  more  or 
less  difficult  human  figures  in  each,  there  were 
elaborate  backgrounds  of  draperies  and  rustic 
benches  and  potted  plants.  He  took  the  package 
back  and  asked  for  something  simpler — more 
within  his  power  as  a  beginner.  His  employer 
explained  to  him  cheerfully  that  he  had  nothing 
else  just  then,  but  that  he  was  sure  of  easier  work 
for  him  by  the  time  that  he  had  finished  this. 

The  poor  fellow  walked  out  into  the  street 
knowing  that  he  had  been  swindled  out  of  three 
dollars  and  three  days'  hard  work,  and  that  penni- 
less now,  he  must  take  up  the  search  again,  and 
that  there  was  no  redress  for  him. 

Several  times  after  this  I  saw  him  and  I  pressed 


FINDING   STEADY    WORK  127 

upon  him  each  time  the  plan  of  returning  to  his 
former  home  in  northern  Indiana,  or  striking  out 
anywhere  into  the  open  country,  where  his  in- 
telligence and  his  former  experience  would  stand 
him  in  good  stead,  and  where  he  would  probably 
not  have  to  look  long  for  a  job.  This  was  keenly 
distasteful  to  him,  for  it  would  be  a  tacit  ac- 
knowledgment of  defeat,  and  the  man  was  not 
without  courage  and  pluck.  I  met  him  last  one 
early  morning  after  his  first  night  as  a  lodger  in 
a  station-house.  His  eyes  were  starting  from  his 
head,  and  he  wore  the  wild,  hunted  look  which  I 
had  watched  with  alarm  in  Clark.  He  would 
scarcely  stop  to  talk.  He  was  off  for  the  open 
country  and  his  former  home. 

Before  many  days  had  passed  Clark  and  I  be- 
gan to  lose  the  sense  of  being  recruits  in  the  army 
of  the  unemployed.  We  soon  acquired  the  feel- 
ing of  veterans,  and  with  it  a  certain  naturalness 
as  of  long  habit.  It  is  not  a  little  strange  how 
swift  this  adjustment  is.  We  fell  into  some  of 
the  ways  of  the  other  men  with  an  ease  which 
seemed  to  imply  a  long  antecedent  wont.  This 
was  after  Clark  had  despaired  of  work  in  a 
foundry,  and  had  reached  the  level  of  willingness 
to  sweep  a  crossing  for  a  living,  if  only  he  could 
get  the  job. 


128  THE   WORKERS 

One  of  the  habits  which  came  most  readily  to 
us  was  to  join  the  crowds  which  stand  in  the 
early  morning  about  the  gates  of  large  productive 
institutions.  Sometimes  a  superintendent  finds 
himself  short-handed  of  common  labor  in  a  per- 
manent department  of  the  work  or  for  an  emer- 
gency, and  he  sends  a  foreman  out  to  the  gates  to 
secure  the  needed  men.  This  happens  very 
rarely,  if  I  may  judge  from  our  experience;  and 
yet,  upon  so  slender  a  chance  as  this,  hundreds  of 
men  stand  each  day  in  the  market-places  for 
labor,  waiting  hopefully  for  some  husbandman  in 
want  of  workers. 

Clark  and  I  soon  made  a  considerable  round. 
One  morning  we  were  at  the  gates  of  the  Expo- 
sition grounds,  another  at  the  Stock-yards,  and 
then  at  various  factory  gates  on  the  West  Side. 

We  were  up  at  five  one  clear,  cold  morning 
near  the  middle  of  December,  in  order  to  try  our 
luck  at  the  gates  of  a  factory  which  lies  four 
miles  or  more  from  the  heart  of  the  city.  It  was 
no  great  hardship  to  set  off  without  a  breakfast, 
for  we  had  supped  heartily  on  the  night  before, 
and  had  gladly  spent  our  remaining  cash  for  beds 
in  preference  to  sleeping  in  the  station-house. 

Out  of  a  cloudless  sky  blew  a  strong,  dry, 
northwest  wind  across  the  snowless  prairies,  and 
it  cut  sharply,  at  right  angles,  through  the  long 


FINDING  STEADY  WORK  129 

diagonal  street  which  we  followed  to  the  far 
southwest.  We  did  not  loiter,  for  it  took  our 
fastest  gait  to  keep  us  warm.  The  buildings 
shielded  us  in  part,  but  around  the  corners  the 
wind  caught  us  with  its  unchecked  force,  and  en- 
veloped us  often  in  clouds  of  driven  dust  which 
rose  from  the  surface  of  the  frozen  streets.  There 
was  exhilaration  in  the  walk;  when  we  reached 
the  centre  of  the  viaduct  which  carries  Blue  Isl- 
and Avenue  across  the  various  lines  of  railway 
which  enter  the  city  between  Fifteenth  and  Six- 
teenth Streets,  we  were  in  the  full,  unimpeded 
gale,  and  looking  back  we  could  see  across  the 
dark  city  the  first  slender  shafts  of  light  dimming 
the  eastern  stars. 

It  was  still  dark  when  we  reached  the  factory 
gates,  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour  remained  be- 
fore the  sun  would  be  well  up,  and  it  was  almost 
half  an  hour  before  the  beginning  of  the  day's 
work.  We  were  not  the  first  to  be  on  hand.  Al- 
ready there  were  groups  of  men  who  stood  before 
the  fast-closed  gate,  or  stamped  slowly  up  and 
down  on  the  sleepers  of  the  railway  which  enters 
the  factory  yard,  or  gathered  for  shelter  behind 
the  walls  of  neighboring  buildings.  The  number 
of  these  men  was  growing  fast.  I  thought  at  first 
that  many  of  them  were  employees  waiting  for 
the  morning  opening  of  the  factory.  But  when 


130  TIIE   WOBKEKS 

the  heavy  gate  moved  down  its  groove  in  answer 
to  the  keeper's  push,  disclosing  the  open  area  of 
the  factory  yard  and  the  long  platforms  flanking 
the  warehouses,  this  company  of  waiting  men, 
grown  now  to  eighty  or  a  hundred  strong,  stood 
against  the  high  board  fence  and  along  the  edges 
of  a  great  stream  of  workingmen,  which  began 
to  pour  with  increasing  volume  through  the  nar- 
row way.  A  bell  sounded  from  the  factory  tower, 
and  you  could  hear  the  first  slow  movements  of 
the  piston-rods,  and  the  answering  stir  among  the 
fly-wheels  as  they  warmed  to  swifter  motion,  and 
the  straps  and  pulleys  tuning  up  to  the  canticle 
of  the  working-day. 

The  sudden  on-rush  of  factory-hands  was  al- 
most a  miracle.  Men  seemed  to  rise  as  by  magic 
from  the  soil.  They  streamed  from  neighboring 
tenements,  and  along  the  wooden  sidewalks,  and 
from  out  the  horse-cars  which  came  down  the 
streets  loaded  to  the  couplers.  They  had  grown 
to  the  number  of  an  army,  and  in  rough,  uneven, 
changing  ranks  they  walked  briskly,  five,  six, 
nine  men  abreast,  while  the  bell  tapped  off  ner- 
vously the  swift  approach  of  seven  o'clock.  Two 
men  seated  in  a  buggy  drove  their  horse  slowly 
into  the  thick  of  the  crowd,  which  deflected  at 
the  gate  to  let  them  pass,  and  then  closed  in  be- 
hind with  increased  momentum.  The  snperin- 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  131 

tendent  of  the  factory  stepped  down  from  the 
buggy  and  climbed  the  staircase  to  his  office. 

The  converging  lines  of  workmen  made  denser 
the  mass  that  pressed  quickly  through  the  gate. 
There  was  little  speech  among  them,  and  the 
noise  they  made  was  the  shuffling,  broken  step  of 
an  unorganized  crowd.  But  there  was  not  want- 
ing the  inspiration  of  a  moving  throng  of  men. 
Some  of  them  were  old  and  much  bent  with  pain 
and  labor,  and  there  were  boys  in  the  crowd  who 
could  be  but  little  beyond  their  first  decade  of 
life,  but  the  great  body  of  the  hands  were  young 
men  between  the  ages  of  twenty  and  thirty-five. 
One  could  trace  upon  these  faces  all  the  stages  of 
life's  handicraft,  in  distorting  human  counte- 
nances into  grotesque  variations  from  all  normal 
types  of  beauty,  and  bringing  out  upon  them,  in 
infinite  variety,  individual  expressions  of  aggres- 
sive power  and  the  strength  which  comes  of  long 
endurance.  Ah,  the  hideous  ugliness  of  the  race 
to  which  we  belong,  and  yet  the  more  than 
beauty  of  it  in  the  strong  lines  it  bears  of  honest 
work  faithfully  done  and  of  pain  and  sorrow 
bravely  borne! 

With  the  last  sharp  ringing  of  the  bell  there 
was  a  sudden  rush  of  the  living  stream  of  work- 
ers, and  then  it  abruptly  ceased,  and  we,  the  un- 
employed, stood  at  both  sides  along  the  high 


THE   WORKERS 

board  fence,  like  so  much  useless  foam  tossed  off 
by  the  swift  current  which  had  poured  through 
the  narrow  gate.  The  keeper  began  a  monoto- 
nous march  up  and  down  the  opening  before  his 
sentry-box.  He  was  a  muscular,  blue-eyed  Irish- 
man of  fifty-five  or  sixty,  and  he  was  in  no  wise 
ignorant  of  his  business.  There  was  nothing  to 
indicate  that  he  was  aware  of  the  presence  of  the 
crowd  of  expectant  men,  until  some  of  us  pressed 
too  near  to  the  gate  in  our  anxiety  to  catch  sight 
of  a  foreman  in  search  of  extra  hands,  and  then 
he  ordered  us  back  with  a  violence  which  showed 
that  we  were  one  of  the  pests  of  his  existence. 

From  some  unseen  quarter  of  the  factory  yard 
a  closely  covered  wagon  suddenly  appeared.  The 
paymaster  presently  descended  from  the  super- 
intendent's office,  and  entering  the  wagon,  he  was 
driven  to  the  gate,  where  a  halt  was  made  while 
two  loaded  revolvers  were  handed  to  him  by  the 
porter,  in  full  view  of  the  idle  men,  and  then  he 
was  driven  rapidly  up  the  avenue  toward  the  city. 

It  was  the  usual  heterogeneous  crowd  that  lin- 
gered there  about  the  gate.  Most  of  them  were 
Irishmen,  I  think,  and  there  were  certainly  Ital- 
ians and  Scandinavians  and  some  Welshmen,  and 
even  a  few  Polish  Jews,  while  Clark  and  I,  so  far 
as  I  could  judge,  were  the  only  native  born.  Not 
all  of  them  could  have  been  in  the  homeless 


FINDING   STEADY    WORK  133 

plight  in  which  we  were,  and  there  was  scarcely 
a  case  of  insufficient  clothing  among  them,  while 
many  seemed  to  be  habitual  workmen  who  knew 
the  decencies  of  home  and  of  some  home  comfort. 
But  there  were  not  wanting  men  who,  like  us, 
were  evidently  upon  the  streets,  and  not  only  in 
dress,  but  in  face,  they  suggested  those  who,  if 
not  already  of  that  class,  are  swiftly  approximat- 
ing to  professional  tramps. 

There  was  wonderful  stillness  in  the  crowd, 
which  now  had  broken  into  small  groups.  A  con- 
scious tension  possessed  us,  as  of  nervous  watch- 
ing for  an  uncertain  event.  Men  spoke  to  one 
another  in  low  tones  scarcely  above  a  whisper. 
An  hour  passed  with  nothing  to  break  the  monot- 
ony of  its  long  anxiety.  We  were  fairly  shielded 
from  the  wind,  and  the  sun  had  risen  high  and 
had  begun  to  lend  a  generous  aid  to  our  efforts 
at  keeping  warm  in  the  frost-bit  air.  The  pale 
crescent  of  the  waning  moon  had  almost  faded 
into  the  clear  blue  of  the  western  sky.  We  soon 
were  aware  of  the  relaxing  of  tension,  and  then 
the  men  began  to  drift  away  toward  other  fac- 
tories, or,  disappointed,  to  their  homes,  or  back 
to  the  aimless  living  of  the  streets. 

Just  then  a  young  Hungarian  came  among  us 
— a  man  of  twenty-five,  perhaps,  short  and  erect 
and  stocky,  with  an  appearance  of  great  muscular 


134  THE   WORKERS 

strength  and  a  nervous  quickness  of  step  which 
was  in  full  keeping  with  the  wide-eyed  inquisi- 
tiveness  of  his  round,  swarthy  face.  He  was  look- 
ing inquiringly  at  the  clusters  of  loitering  men 
and  the  open  gate  and  the  stolid  porter  in  appar- 
ently heedless  guard  before  it.  I  saw  his  eye 
sweep  the  crowd  in  seeking  for  a  fellow-country- 
man, for  it  was  written  plain  upon  him  that  he 
was  an  immigrant  and  innocent  of  any  language 
but  his  own.  One  could  fairly  see  his  mental 
process,  it  was  all  so  clear:  "  I  am  looking  for  a 
job  in  this  wide  land  of  freedom  to  workingmen. 
Here  is  a  great  factory,  and  the  open  gate  invites 
me.  Why  waste  the  time  outside?  For  my  part 
I  shall  go  in  at  once  and  see  the  boss,  and  then  go 
quickly  on  with  no  loss  of  time,  if  I  should  not 
be  wanted  here."  One  foot  was  just  over  the 
steel  rail  upon  which  the  sliding  gate  moves, 
when,  with  the  swiftness  of  the  spring  of  a  pan- 
ther which  has  been  crouching  for  its  prey,  the 
heavy  hands  of  the  seemingly  careless  watchman 
were  upon  his  shoulders,  and  the  man  was  held, 
amazed  and  paralyzed,  in  a  vice-like  grip. 

"  "What  are  you  after? "  roared  the  porter  in 
his  face. 

There  was  a  murmured  attempt  at  speech,  and 
then  the  laborer  was  faced  about  with  a  sudden- 
ness and  force  that  set  his  teeth  to  rattling  in  his 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  135 

head,  and  the  porter  turned  him  loose  with  suc- 
cessive parting  kicks  which  seemed  to  lift  the 
fellow  from  the  ground. 

He  was  tingling  with  pain  as  he  slunk  in 
among  us,  but  the  expression  which  he  wore  was 
one  of  strong,  appealing  bewilderment  at  the 
meaning  of  it  all. 

It  was  over  in  a  moment,  and  then  the  cold, 
cowering,  hungry  mass  of  unhuman  humanity  at 
the  gate  broke  into  a  low,  gruff  laugh. 

It  must  have  been  this  laugh  that  stung  me  to 
hot  fury,  for  in  an  instant  I  had  lost  all  sense  of 
cold  and  weariness  and  hunger,  and  I  was  strong 
and  warm  in  the  wild  joy  of  the  lust  for  blood. 
"With  one  hand  gripping  his  hairy  throat  I  was 
pounding  the  porter's  eyes  with  my  right  first  in 
blows  whose  frequency  and  precision  surprised 
me  into  greater  joy.  But  there  was  a  sudden  end 
of  clear  memory  when,  with  a  full-armed  swing 
of  his  huge  fist  the  keeper  struck  me  in  the  face 
and  knocked  me,  limp  and  almost  senseless,  upon 
the  planks,  where  I  lay  choking  down  gulps  of 
blood  which  flowed  from  a  cut  against  my  teeth. 
Clark  was  bending  over  me. 
"  What  in  -  -  did  you  hit  him  for,  you  — 
fool?  "  he  hissed  at  me. 

"  I  had  a  jolly  good  time  doing  it,"  I  ex- 
plained; and  I  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  laugh 


136  THE  WORKERS 

a  little  at  the  momentary  sport  which  I  had  had 
in  making  a  fool  of  myself. 

Clark  helped  me  to  my  feet,  and  we  walked 
off  together,  only  I  could  not  walk  very  far  at  a 
stretch.  He  did  not  desert  me,  and  he  would  not 
leave  the  subject  of  my  folly.  But  he  changed 
his  point  of  view  at  length,  and  acknowledged, 
finally,  that  he  was  "  glad  that  I  had  got  in  a  few 
licks  on  the  porter's  eye,"  an  emotion  which  I 
warmly  shared. 

That  day  was  chiefly  memorable  because  of 
Clark's  final  success  in  finding  work.  It  came 
from  a  most  unexpected  quarter.  We  were  walk- 
ing together  through  Adams  Street  when  a  man 
touched  Clark  upon  the  shoulder  and  withdrew 
to  the  doorway  of  a  shop.  Clark  recognized  him 
at  once  as  a  foundry  superintendent  with  whom 
he  had  been  importunate  for  work,  and  his  face 
lighted  up  with  a  hopefulness  which  made  the 
moment  almost  tragic.  I  stood  at  the  door-step 
and  listened. 

"  Ain't  you  found  a  job  yet? "  began  the 
superintendent. 

"  No." 

"  Well,  I've  been  thinking  about  your  case," 
he  continued.  "  We  ain't  got  a  job  for  you  at 
the  foundry,"  he  hastened  to  explain,  "  but  I've 
heard  from  a  friend  of  mine  in  Milwaukee,  and 


I   WAS    STRONG    AND   WARM    IN   THE   WILD  JOT  OF  THE   I,T"ST   FOR   BLOOD. 


FINDING  STEADY   WORK  137 

they're  short  of  men  in  your  line.  Could  you  go 
up  there?" 

"  I  could  walk,"  said  Clark. 

"  Well,  that  ain't  necessary.  I — I'm  good  for 
a  ticket,"  added  the  superintendent,  with  a  look 
of  embarrassment. 

And  he  was  as  good  as  his  word,  for  he  went 
with  Clark  to  the  station,  where  he  added  to  the 
ticket  a  dollar,  both  of  which  were  accepted  as  a 
loan. 

Clark  was  nearly  mad  with  suppressed  delight 
when  he  met  me  in  the  entrance  of  the  post-office, 
where  he  had  asked  me  to  await  his  return.  "With 
his  usual  generosity  he  shared  his  good-fortune 
with  me,  and,  before  we  went  to  the  railway-sta- 
tion together  we  had  a  farewell  dinner  on  beef- 
steak and  onions  and  unlimited  coffee  and  bread. 

My  own  success  followed  Clark's  by  only  a  few 
days,  when  I  was  taken  on  as  a  hand-truckman 
in  a  factory  on  the  "West  Side;  but  there  is  one 
intervening  experience  which  belongs  distinc- 
tively to  this  part  of  the  general  experiment. 

I  found,  one  early  morning,  among  a  lot  .of 
"fake"  advertisements,  which  I  had  come  to  rec- 
ognize with  ease,  one  notice  of  "  a  man  wanted  " 
which  rang  with  genuineness.  Applicants  were 
told  to  report  at  a  certain  shop  just  without  the 
Stock-yards  at  twelve  o'clock  that  day.  In 


138  THE   WORKERS 

ample  time  I  crossed  over  to  Halsted  Street  and 
walked  in  a  leisurely  way  down  that  marvel- 
lous thoroughfare.  It  was  not  new  to  me,  and  I 
was  missing  Clark  sorely  and  was  experiencing 
a  new  phase  of  the  loneliness  of  being  "  left  be- 
hind." And  yet  I  could  but  mark  again  with 
fresh  interest  the  wonders  of  this  great  artery  of 
the  West  Side  in  the  five  miles  of  its  length 
through  which  I  walked  to  the  appointed  number. 
It  is  essentially  a  cheap  street:  cheap  buildings 
line  it,  in  which  tenants  rent  cheap  lodgings  and 
shop-keepers  employ  cheap  labor  and  sell  cheap 
wares  of  every  kind  to  those  of  the  poor  "  whose 
destruction  is  their  poverty."  Every  sort  of 
structural  flimsiness  looks  down  upon  you  as  you 
pass :  ghastly  imitations  in  stone  of  real,  substan- 
tial buildings;  the  unblinking  fronts  of  glaring 
red-brick  shells,  whose  shoddiness  is  the  more  ap- 
parent in  gaudy  shops  and  in  "  all  the  modern 
improvements  "  and  in  the  heavy  cotton-lace  at 
the  upper  windows.  And  there  are  wooden  shan- 
ties with  "  false  fronts,"  after  the  manner  of 
frontier  "  cities,"  and  wooden  hovels  with  slop- 
ing roofs  which  are  far  along  in  process  of  decay, 
and  here  and  there  a  substantial  house  which  was 
built  upon  the  open  prairie,  and  which  looks  with 
amazement  upon  the  fungus  growth  about  it, 
while  struggling  pitifully  to  maintain  its  dignity 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  139 

in  the  uncongenial  company  which  it  is  forced  to 
keep. 

Down  miles  of  such  a  street  I  went  on  side- 
walks which  were  chiefly  rotting  planks,  with 
black  mire,  as  of  a  pig-sty,  straining  through  the 
cracks  under  the  pressure  of  passing  feet.  The 
street  itself  is  paved  with  cylindrical  blocks  of 
wood,  ill  laid  at  the  beginning,  and  having  now 
closely  pounded  filth  between  them,  while  the 
whole  surface  presents  an  infinite  variety  of  con- 
cavities, in  which,  especially  along  the  gutters, 
lay  garbage  in  frozen,  shallow  cesspools. 

A  saloon  stood  on  almost  every  corner,  and 
sometimes  I  counted  seven  pawnbrokers'  signs 
within  the  limits  of  a  square.  It  was  interesting 
to  watch  the  run  of  "  loan  agencies,"  and  "  col- 
lateral banks,"  and  other  euphemisms  under 
which  the  business  was  disguised. 

Large  quantities  of  provisions  lay  heaped  in 
baskets  and  measures  along  the  pavements  in 
front  of  grocers'  shops,  catching  the  soot  and  the 
floating  dust  of  the  open  street.  Cheap  ready- 
made  and  second-hand  garments  hung  flapping 
like  scare-crows  overhead,  or  clothed  grotesque 
wooden  dummies  wliich  stood  chained  to  the  shop 
doors  or  to  the  wood-work  below  the  show-win- 
dows. Scores  of  idle  men,  with  the  unvarying 
leaden  eye  and  soggy  droop  of  their  kind,  loung- 


140  THE   WORKERS 

ingly  exchanged  the  comfort  of  a  mutual  sup- 
port with  door-posts,  chiefly  of  saloons.  Little 
children  in  every  stage  of  condition,  from  decent 
warmth  to  utter  rags,  and  from  wholesome  clean- 
liness to  dirt  grown  clean  in  unconsciousness  of 
itself,  played  about  the  pavements  and  in  the  gut- 
ters, or  ran  screaming  with  delight  across  the 
street-car  lines,  along  which  the  trams  moved 
slowly,  drawn  by  horses  with  bells  tinkling  from 
the  harness. 

The  first  sight  of  my  destination  was  very  re- 
assuring. It  was  evidently  a  shop  of  the  first 
class.  A  second  glance  was  disheartening,  for 
already  there  were  fully  thirty  men  before  me, 
and  the  number  was  increasing.  From  one  of 
the  men  employed  in  the  shop  I  learned  that  a 
man  from  the  packing-house  of  the  firm  would  be 
out  to  see  us  at  the  appointed  hour.  The  ap- 
pointed hour  came  and  passed,  and  we  waited  on, 
our  numbers  grown  now  to  nearly  fifty.  It  was 
not  far  from  two  o'clock  when  the  man  appeared'* 
who  had  been  commissioned  to  see  us. 

There  is  no  tyranny  like  the  tyranny  of  a  hire- 
ling who  is  puffed  up  with  momentary  authority 
but  who  knows  nothing  of  responsibility.  The 
man  who  finally  came  among  us  was  a  clerical 
subordinate,  sleek,  clean-shaven,  overfed;  a  man 
of  thirty,  dressed  as  any  like  Johnnie  of  the  town, 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  141 

and,  except  for  his  slender  hold  upon  the  means 
of  livelihood,  no  better  than  most  of  the  men  who 
now  hung  breathless  upon  his  words. 

He  swaggered  in  among  us  with  a  leer  and  a 
call  across  the  shop  to  a  fellow-employee. 

"  Say,  Jim,  how's  this  for  a  collection  of 
freaks,  all  out  for  a  fifteen-dollar  job?  " 

Jim  was  silent;  he  did  not  see  the  joke  any 
better  than  did  we,  who  now  crowded  about  the 
clerk. 

"  Stand  off,"  he  ordered  us,  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience  and  an  oath.  "  Don't  you  fellows 
come  so  near.  I  guess  most  of  you  need  water 
more  than  you  need  a  job." 

There  followed  some  minutes  of  such  banter, 
while  the  clerk  looked  us  over  and  examined  has- 
tily some  letters  of  recommendation  which  were 
held  out  to  him.  Then  abruptly,  with  the  air  of 
a  busy  man  chafing  at  the  useless  waste  of  his  val- 
uable time,  he  withdrew  a  step  or  two  from  the 
crowd,  and  from  this  coign  of  vantage  he  arbitra- 
rily singled  out  four  men.  Having  called  them 
aside  he  ordered  them  to  report  at  ten  o'clock  on 
the  next  morning  at  the  packing-house,  where  a 
member  of  the  firm  would  see  them  and  select 
one  of  them  for  the  place,  which  was  that  of  gen- 
eral-utility man  about  a  private  house,  at  a  wage 
of  board  and  lodging  and  fifteen  dollars  a  month. 


142  THE   WORKERS 

I  was  not  one  of  the  number.  In  a  few 
moments  the  men  had  all  gone  their  several 
ways,  but  I  waited  behind,  and  seeing  a  chance 
of  speaking  to  the  clerk  alone,  I  went  up  to 
him. 

"  Would  you  mind  looking  at  these  refer- 
ences? "  I  asked,  and  handed  out  two,  one  from 

the  proprietor  of  the  " House,"  where  I  had 

served  as  porter,  and  another  from  Mr.  Hill,  the 
farmer. 

"  Certainly  not,"  he  said,  good-naturedly; 
and  when  he  had  read  them  he  handed  them 
back  to  me  with  the  remark  that  I,  too,  might 
call  with  the  others  at  ten  o'clock. 

Under  the  stone  arch  which  spans  the  entrance 
to  the  Union  Stock-yards  I  passed  unchallenged 
the  next  morning.  A  wooden  sidewalk  led  me 
along  a  miry  road  which  seemed  to  pierce  the 
centre  of  the  yards.  Men  of  widely  varying  ages 
passed  and  repassed  me,  mounted  upon  branded 
mustangs.  They  were  riders  who  cared  nothing 
for  appearance  in  either  kit  or  form,  but  rode 
with  the  free  grace  of  cow-boys.  On  every  side 
were  scores  of  acres  of  open  pens  enclosed  by 
stout  wooden  fences  six  palings  high,  with  water 
and  fodder  troughs  along  the  sides.  From  them 
came  the  deep,  far  lowing  of  a  thousand  herds 
of  cattle  which  stood  crowded  in  the  pens  or 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  143 

thinned  to  a  few  remaining,  all  of  them  patiently 
awaiting  death.  From  great  covered  sheds  you 
could  hear  the  ceaseless  bleating  of  countless 
flocks  of  sheep.  From  long  covered  passages  over- 
head, each  an  awful  bridge  of  sighs,  there  came 
the  sharp  clatter  of  cloven  hoofs  on  wooden 
planks,  along  which  droves  of  cattle  were  being 
driven  to  slaughter.  In  the  distance  beyond  all 
this  loomed  high  the  unsightly  packing-houses, 
where,  with  scientific  efficiency  and  carefulest 
economy  of  materials,  daily  hecatombs  are  of- 
fered up  for  human  life. 

I  soon  found  my  way  to  the  desired  office.  It 
was  ten  o'clock  exactly,  and  to  my  great  surprise 
I  alone  of  the  five  selected  men  was  on  hand.  I 
was  told  to  wait,  and  a  corner  near  a  high  desk 
was  indicated  as  a  place  where  I  might  stand. 
It  was  in  a  wide  passage  along  which  ranged 
inner  offices  enclosed  by  ground-glass  partitions. 
Clerks  were  passing  constantly  from  one  office 
to  another  and  meeting  the  requirements  of  busi- 
ness errands  as  they  came  in.  Presently  one  of 
them  spoke  to  me,  and  learning  that  I  had  re- 
ceived no  reply  from  the  clerk  to  whom  I  had 
first  made  my  purpose  known,  he  politely  volun- 
teered his  services,  and  soon  brought  back  word 
that  Mr. would  see  me  in  a  few  minutes. 

The  few  minutes  had  grown  to  thirty,  when 


144  THE  WORKERS 

one  of  the  other  five  men  appeared.  He  was  a 
fair-haired  Swede  of  five-and-twenty,  rather  stout 
in  frame,  and  dressed  all  in  black,  his  coat,  of  the 
"  Prince  Albert "  type,  falling  short  of  his 
knees,  and  disclosing  about  his  neck  and  wrists 
the  white  of  neat  linen.  With  his  hair  brushed 
smooth,  and  one  black-gloved  hand  grasping  a  fat 
umbrella  and  the  other  a  soft  felt  hat,  he  might 
have  been  a  divinity  student. 

We  nodded  to  each  other  as  he  took  up  his  stand 
in  another  out-of-the-way  quarter  of  the  hall  and 
joined  me  in  waiting  for  a  summons.  Among 
the  passing  clerks  there  presently  appeared  the 
one  who  had  met  us  on  the  day  before.  He  was 
not  in  bantering  mood  now,  so  he  asserted  his 
superiority  by  ignoring  us.  The  one  who  had  al- 
ready spoken  to  me  lost  no  opportunity  as  he 
passed  of  saying  an  encouraging  word,  assuring 

us  that  Mr. would  certainly  see  us  before 

long. 

It  was  a  little  after  twelve  when  I  was  finally 

called  into  the  private  office  of  Mr. .  I  was 

rather  faint  from  hunger  and  stiff  from  standing 
still  so  long  after  a  long  walk. 

Mr.  sat  with  his  back  to  a  window,  in 

whose  full  light  I  stood,  hat  in  hand. 

"  You're  after  this  job  I  advertised,  I  under- 
stand," he  began. 


FINDING   STEADY   WORK  145 

* 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  it  ain't  no  great  job;  it's  just  doin' 
chores  round  the  house,  and  I  can't  afford  to  pay 
much  for  it.  Have  you  ever  done  work  like 
that?" 

"  I  have  been  a  porter  at  a  hotel." 

"Have  you  any  recommends?"  he  asked, 
sharply.  I  handed  to  him  the  two  already  men- 
tioned, and  as  he  read  them  I  watched  him  with 
close  interest.  Young,  alert,  intensely  energetic, 
at  the  head,  or  near  it,  of  a  prominent  house,  the 
controller,  in  part  at  least,  of  an  enormous  enter- 
prise, and  a  considerable  personage,  no  doubt,  in 
his  own  social  circle,  yet  his  wholesale  butchery 
of  swine  could  scarcely  be  a  ghastlier  slaughter 
than  was  his  treatment  of  his  mother-tongue. 

He  looked  up  at  me. 

"  Say,  young  fellow,  is  them  all  the  recom- 
mends you  have?  You  was  a  very  short  time  at 
both  of  them  places." 

This  fatal  defect  in  my  references  had  never 
occurred  to  me,  and  I  began  to  stammer  explana- 
tions which  only  served  to  get  me  into  deeper 

water.  Mr.  interrupted  me,  and  handing 

back  my  letters,  he  said: 

"  You'll  have  to  bring  me  something  more 
satisfactory  than  them,"  and  went  on  with  his 

work. 

10 


146  THE  WORKERS 

The  young  Swede  followed  me  out  of  the  pas- 
sage. 

"Did  you  get  the  job?"  he  asked,  in  good 
English. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  not  yet.  You  have  a  good 
chance;  you  would  better  wait  until  the  boss 
sends  for  you." 

"  I  guess  not  to-day,"  he  answered,  and  he 
stolidly  refused  my  advice,  and  I  saw  him  dis- 
appear by  another  way  from  the  Stock-yards. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN  A   FACTORY 

No.  —  BLUE  ISLAND  AVENUE,  CHICAGO, 
Wednesday,  February  3,.  1892. 

AT  half -past  five  this  afternoon  I  completed 
seven  weeks  of  service  as  a  hand-truckman  in  a 
factory.  Mrs.  Schultz,  my  landlady,  tells  me 
that  she  is  sorry  that  I  am  going  away ;  and  now 
that  the  long-looked-for  end  is  come,  I  am  not  in 
the  least  elated,  as  I  thought  that  I  should  be. 
But  the  days  are  lengthening  markedly  with  the 
promise  of  the  coming  spring,  and  I  am  force- 
fully reminded  that  the  time  grows  short  for  the 
study  at  close  range  of  much  that  still  awaits  me 
in  this  great  working  city  before  I  can  well  set 
out  again  upon  my  westward  journey. 

Seven  weeks  as  a  factory-hand  is  very  little. 
Like  all  phases  of  my  experiment,  it  is  but  the 
lightest  touch  upon  the  surface  of  the  life  which 
I  seek  to  understand.  Strong  and  infinitely  ap- 
pealing are  the  basal  elements  of  existence,  and 
yet  mysterious,  evasive,  receding  like  a  spectre 

from  your  craving  grasp.     And  in  the  secret 
147 


148  THE  WORKERS 

of  its  veiled  presence  speaks  a  Voice:  "  Only 
through  living  is  it  given  unto  men  to  know; 
none  but  the  heaven-sent  may  know  otherwise. 
Not  by  experiment,  but  only  through  the  poig- 
nancy of  real  agony  and  joy  is  my  secret  learned." 

As  a  witness  of  certain  external  conditions  and 
as  a  sharer  in  them,  I  may  tell  nothing  but  the 
truth,  and  yet  the  whole  truth  reaches  far  beyond 
the  compass  of  my  vision — the  joys  and  creature 
comforts  of  men  whose  birth  and  breeding  and 
life-long  training  fit  them  smoothly  to  circum- 
stances which  seem  to  me  all  friction;  the  blind 
human  agony  of  these  men,  as  necessity  bears 
hard  upon  them,  and,  helpless,  they  watch  the 
sufferings  of  their  wives  and  children,  and  have 
no  hope  nor  any  escape  but  death;  the  un- 
conscious delight  in  living  intensely  in  the  pres- 
ent with  easy  adjustment  to  homely  surround- 
ings, and  no  anxious  thought  for  the  future 
and  no  morbid  introspection;  the  sharply  con- 
scious endurance  of  grim  realities,  which  baffle 
the  untrained  reason  and  paralyze  the  will,  and 
make  of  a  strong  man  a  terrified  child  in  the 
grip  of  the  superstitious  horrors  of  disease,  and 
loss  of  work,  and  the  "  bad  luck  "  which  plays 
so  large  a  part  in  that  sordid  thing  which  he  calls 
life. 

For  seven  weeks  I  have  worked  daily  in  the 


A   HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN   A   FACTORY      149 

company  of  two  thousand  hands,  and  have  lived 
with  half  a  score  of  them  in  a  tenement-house 
near  the  factory,  and  yet  I  am  leaving  them  with 
but  the  slenderest  knowledge  of  their  lives. 

It  was  one  bitter  cold  morning  a  little  past  the 
middle  of  December  that  I  was  taken  on.  I  had 
had  a  good  supper  on  the  night  before  and  a  sound 
night's  sleep;  and  the  pleasure  of  being  set  to 
work  once  more,  of  being  caught  up  again  into 
the  meaningful  movement  of  men,  was  tempered 
only  by  a  lack  of  breakfast  and  a  long  walk 
through  the  cold  gray  dawn. 

Crist  was  my  boss.  Crist  is  foreman  of  the 
gangs  of  men  who  load  the  box-cars  which  flank 
the  long  platforms  beside  the  warehouses  of  the 
factory.  Wide  sloping  eaves  project  from  the 
buildings'  sides  to  a  point  nearly  over  the  edge 
of  the  platforms,  and  under  these  are  stored  the 
new  mowers  and  reapers  and  harvesters,  gay  in 
gorgeous  paint,  and  reduced  to  the  point  of  easi- 
est handling,  their  subordinate  parts  near  by  in 
compact  crates  and  boxes,  all  ready  for  imme- 
diate shipment. 

The  proper  loading  of  the  cars  is  a  work  re- 
quiring great  skill  and  ingenuity  on  Grist's  part; 
for  the  men  it  is  the  mere  muscular  carrying  out 
of  his  directions.  Under  Crist's  guidance  the 
superficial  area  of  a  car  is  made  to  hold  an  in- 


150  THE  WORKERS 

credible  amount.  By  long  practice  he  has  learned 
the  greatest  possible  economy  of  space,  in  the  nice 
adjustments  of  varying  bulks,  so  that  each  load 
is  a  maximum,  in  point  of  number,  of  complete 
machines. 

There  was  like  shrewdness,  I  thought,  in  his 
handling  of  the  men.  After  his  first  orders  to  me 
I  came  almost  not  at  all  under  his  direct  control 
through  the  few  days  in  which  I  worked  in  his 
department.  But  I  had  many  opportunities  then 
and  later,  too,  of  observing  him.  A  tall,  old, 
lithe  Norwegian,  with  a  certain  awkward,  lanky 
efficiency  of  movement,  he  had  the  mild  manner 
and  the  soft,  low  speech  of  the  hard-of-hearing. 
He  never  blustered,  certainly,  and  apparently  he 
never  swore,  but  the  men  under  him  worked  with- 
out hurry  and  without  intervals  in  a  way  which 
told  superbly  in  the  total  work  accomplished. 

A  gang  of  six  or  eight  laborers  under  his  di- 
rection was  just  beginning  the  loading  of  an 
empty  box-car  when  I  was  taken  on.  They  were 
stalwart,  hardy  workmen  for  the  most  part,  their 
faces  aglow  in  the  cold,  their  muscular  bodies 
warmly  clothed,  and  the  folded  rims  of  their 
heavy  woollen  caps  drawn  down  to  protect  their 
ears.  Over  their  work-stained  overalls  some  of 
them  wore  thick  leather  aprons  which  were  dark- 
ened and  polished  by  wear  to  the  appearance  of 


A  HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN   A   FACTORY      151 

well-seasoned  razor-strops,  and  on  their  hands 
they  all  wore  stout  gloves  or  mittens,  which, 
through  long  use,  had  reached  a  perfect  flexibil- 
ity and  fitness  to  their  work. 

"  John,"  said  Crist,  addressing  one  of  the  gang, 
a  short,  rather  slender  Irishman,  with  a  smooth- 
shaven,  sallow  face,  "  John,  you  take  this  man 
and  fetch  down  the  dry  tongues  from  the  paint- 
shop.  There's  the  wagon-truck,"  and  he  pointed 
to  a  vehicle  whose  heavy  box,  open  at  both  ends, 
and  rising  at  the  sides  to  a  height  of  three  feet, 
was  supported  on  two  small  iron  wheels,  while  an 
iron  leg  under  the  heavier  end  kept  the  bottom 
of  the  truck  horizontal. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  came  instantly  from  John,  as  he 
stepped  alertly  from  among  the  men  and  joined 
me,  his  small,  gray  eyes  looking  inquisitively  into 
mine  and  showing  in  their  sudden  light  the  pleas- 
ure which  he  felt  in  being  thus  singled  out  for 
special  work  and  put  in  charge  of  a  new  hand. 

"  Come  this  way,"  he  said  to  me.  "  Me  and 
you  is  partners.  What's  your  name  ?  My  name's 
John,  John  Barry.  Some  calls  me  Jake,  but  my 
name's  John,"  he  concluded,  with  an  emphasis 
which  made  it  clear  that  he  had  a  rooted  objection 
to  "  Jake." 

Barry's  Christian  name  I  considered  a  poach- 
ing upon  my  preserve,  and  I  was  feeling  about 


152  THE  WORKERS 

1 

for  a  new  handy  praenomen;  but  without  waiting 
for  an  answer  he  continued  swiftly  on  his  loqua- 
cious way,  calling  me  "  partner  "  the  while,  as 
Clark  had  done,  and  "  partner "  I  remained 
through  the  days  of  our  co-labor. 

Barry  was  an  old  hand;  he  knew  his  way 
about  the  factory  perfectly.  We  pushed  the 
truck  before  us  into  a  warehouse  and  through  a 
long,  dim  passage  between  piles  of  various  por- 
tions of  the  various  machines  which  rose  to  the 
ceiling  in  compact  stacks  on  both  sides  of  us  as 
we  walked  the  great  length  of  the  building.  It 
was  as  dark  as  a  tunnel,  except  where  an  occa- 
sional gas-jet  burned  brightly  in  the  centre  of  a 
misty  halo.  The  cold,  unchanging  air  that  never 
knew  the  sun-light  chilled  us  to  the  bone,  and 
near  the  gas  we  could  see  our  breath  rising  in 
clouds  of  white  vapor.  We  came  at  last  to  an 
elevator,  and,  having  pushed  our  truck  aboard, 
we  rose  to  the  next  landing.  Then  down  another 
long,  dark,  damp  passage  we  passed  until  we 
reached  a  covered  bridge,  a  run-way,  as  the  men 
call  it,  which  sloped  upward  to  the  paint-shop  in 
the  main  building  of  the  factory. 

The  spring-doors  at  the  head  of  the  bridge  flew 
open  to  the  sharp  ram  of  our  truck,  and  we  fol- 
lowed into  a  large  room  which  was  flooded  with 
sunlight  from  its  serried  windows.  There  ap- 


A  HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN   A   FACTORY      153 

peared  to  be  hundreds  of  "  binders  "  in  the  room, 
all  painted  white  and  extending  in  long,  straight 
rows  on  wooden  supports  which  held  them  a  few 
feet  from  the  floor.  Among  these  rows  moved 
the  men  who  "  stripe  "  the  binders.  Their  hands 
and  clothing  were  daubed  with  paint,  and  even  as 
we  passed  we  could  see  the  slender,  even  lines  of 
brilliant  color  appearing  as  by  magic  along  the 
white  surface  of  the  machines  under  the  swift, 
sure  stroke  of  these  skilled  painters. 

This  is  their  sole  occupation.  Along  a  side- 
wall  of  the  room  moves  slowly,  on  a  ceiling-trol- 
ley, a  long  line  of  steel  binders,  all  grimy  from 
the  hands  of  the  men  who  join  the  different 
parts.  In  one  corner  is  a  tank  of  white  paint, 
and  by  a  system  of  pulleys  each  binder,  as  it 
passes,  is  lowered  to  the  bath,  completely  im- 
mersed, and  then  drawn  dripping  back  to  the 
trolley.  Presently  it  is  lowered  to  a  support,  and 
is  there  allowed  to  dry.  The  stripers  move  down 
the  lines,  following  close  upon  the  drying  of  the 
paint,  and  the  machines,  soon  ready  for  shipment 
from  their  hands,  are  transferred  to  the  packing- 
rooms,  the  vacant  places  being  quickly  occupied 
by  binders  fresh  from  the  bath.  This  is  one 
phase  of  the  endless  chain  of  factory  production 
under  high  division  of  labor. 

Barry  and  I  passed  on  through  a  communicat- 


154  THE   WORKERS 

ing  door  to  another  room  of  about  equal  size  and 
of  equal  light  and  airiness  with  the  last.  The 
temperate  air  was  pungent  with  the  smell  of  var- 
nish and  new  paint.  It  passed  with  a  pleasant 
sense  of  stinging  freshness  down  into  our  lungs. 
We  had  reached  our  destination;  for  large  sec- 
tions of  the  room  were  closely  stacked  with 
tongues  of  various  sizes,  all  standing  on  end  in  an 
ingenious  system  of  grooves  on  the  floor  and  ceil- 
ing. Some  were  newly  come  from  the  turning- 
mill;  others  had  been  painted,  and  now  awaited 
varnishing;  some  had  passed  both  of  these  proc- 
esses, and  were  ready  for  the  stripers;  while  in 
one  corner  stood  those  which  had  been  painted 
and  varnished  and  striped,  and  which  were  dry 
and  ready  to  be  taken  to  the  platform,  where 
Crist  had  ordered  Barry  and  me  to  stack  them. 

Barry  soon  taught  me  how  to  load  them  prop- 
erly, and,  having  filled  the  truck,  we  descended 
by  an  elevator  to  the  ground-floor  and  passed  out 
again  into  the  bracing  air  of  the  open  platforms, 
where  we  carefully  stacked  the  tongues  under  the 
eaves,  convenient  to  the  loading  of  the  cars. 
Hound  after  round  we  made,  going  always  and 
returning  by  the  same  course,  loading  the  truck 
and  stacking  the  tongues  as  quickly  as  we  could. 
The  work  was  not  hard.  There  was  a  knack  in 
the  proper  handling  of  the  tongues,  but  it  was 


A  HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN   A   FACTORY      155 

readily  acquired,  and  then  one  could  settle  down 
easily  to  the  routine  of  work,  whose  monotony 
was  broken  by  the  recurring  trips. 

One  incident  checked  us  in  the  way.  It  was 
our  happening  to  meet  the  timekeeper  on  his 
rounds.  Barry  dropped  everything  until  he  had 
made  assurance  doubly  sure  that  his  presence  had 
been  duly  noted  in  the  book.  Seeing  that  I  was  a 
new  hand  the  time-keeper  quickly  took  my  name, 
and  then  passed  on  with  a  parting  word  of  caution 
to  me  about  the  proper  record  of  my  time. 

Barry  was  evidently  in  high  enjoyment  of  the 
situation.  The  work  suited  him,  and  the  directing 
of  a  novice  was  hugely  to  his  taste.  There  was 
little  stay  in  the  even  current  of  his  talk.  I  began 
to  feel  not  unlike  a  "  new  boy  "  at  school,  for, 
with  the  air  of  a  mentor,  he  pointed  out  to  me  all 
the  sections  of  the  factory,  and  the  different  oc- 
cupations of  the  men,  and  the  individual  foremen 
as  we  chanced  to  see  them.  Once,  as  we  were 
busily  stacking  tongues,  his  voice  fell  suddenly 
to  a  confidential  tone,  and  his  task  was  plied  with 
tenser  energy. 

"  Do  you  see  that  man  talking  to  Crist? "  he 
said  to  me,  almost  in  a  whisper,  and  with  his  eyes 
intent  upon  his  work. 

I  had  noticed  someone  who  seemed  to  be  a 
member  of  the  managing  staff. 


156  THE   WORKERS 

"  That's  Mr.  Adams,"  Barry  continued.  "  He 
ain't  the  head  boss,  but  he's  next  to  the  head. 
He's  an  awful  nice  man.  He  was  a  working- 
man  himself  once.  I've  heard  that  he  was 
a  carpenter  in  the  factory  when  the  old  man  was 
alive,  and  that  he  was  promoted  to  be  next  to  the 
head  boss.  He  knows  what  work  is,  and  he's  aw- 
ful nice  to  the  men,  but  you  don't  never  want  to 
let  him  catch  you  idle." 

We  had  just  finished  stacking  the  load  and  had 
started  again  for  the  warehouse,  when  we  caught 
sight  of  a  neatly  dressed  man  of  medium  height 
who  was  crossing  a  temporary  bridge,  which 
joined  the  platform  by  the  main  building  over 
the  railway-track  to  the  one  where  we  were  at 
work.  I  felt  the  truck  shoot  forward  at  a  speed 
which  I  had  to  follow  almost  at  a  run.  In  the 
dark  passage  of  the  warehouse  Barry  was  soon 
talking  again,  and  again  in  an  awed  undertone. 

"  That  was  the  head  boss,"  he  said,  impres- 
sively. "  That  was  Mr.  Young  himself."  And 
he  looked  surprised  that  I  did  not  stagger  under 
the  announcement,  although,  to  do  him  justice, 
I  did  feel  a  good  deal  as  the  new  boy  might, 
brought  unexpectedly  for  the  first  time  into  the 
presence  of  the  head  master. 

"  He  ain't  never  worked  a  day  in  his  life," 
Barry  was  continuing.  "  Only  he's  a  terrible  fine 


A   HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN   A   FACTORY     157 

superintendent.  You  bet  he  gets  big  wages. 
They  say  he  can  see  when  he  ain't  looking,  and 
he  comes  down  like  a  thousand  of  brick  on  any 
man  who  shirks  his  work.  He  ain't  never 
worked  himself,  and  so  he  don't  know  what  it  is." 

The  noon-whistle  sounded  soon  after  this,  to 
my  great  relief,  for  a  fast  of  eighteen  hours  was 
telling  on  me.  Barry  left  the  truck  where  it 
stood,  and  broke  into  a  run.  I  followed  him.  In 
a  moment  the  whole  building  and  the  outer 
platforms  were  echoing  to  the  tread  of  run- 
ning feet.  When  I  reached  the  factory-yard  I 
found  crowds  of  men  streaming  from  every 
door  and  pressing  swiftly  through  the  gate. 
A  stranger  to  the  scene  might  at  first  sight 
have  supposed  the  building  to  be  on  fire  and 
that  the  men  were  escaping,  but  a  second  glance 
would  have  corrected  the  idea.  There  was  no 
excitement  in  their  mood;  nor  was  there  any 
playfulness;  but  with  set,  serious  faces  they  were 
running  for  the  careful  economy  of  time.  Barry 
had  explained  to  me  that,  in  order  to  quit  the 
day's  work  at  half-past  five,  the  hands  take  but 
half  an  hour  for  their  mid-day  meal,  and  that  I 
must,  therefore,  be  careful  to  be  within  the  fac- 
tory-gates by  half-past  twelve. 

Interesting  as  was  the  scene,  I  had  no  time  to 
note  it  carefully,  for  I  had  caught  the  contagion 


168  THE   WORKERS 

of  feverish  hurry,  and  with  the  greater  need  on 
my  part,  for  in  that  half  hour  I  must  get  food  if 
I  was  to  return  to  work. 

The  situation  was  a  little  difficult.  I  had  no 
money  and  no  knowledge  of  any  neighboring 
boarding-house.  On  the  avenue,  immediately 
opposite  the  wide  entrance  of  the  factory,  was  a 
line  of  cheap  three-storied  wooden  tenements,  the 
ground-floors  occupied  by  saloons  or  shops,  and 
the  upper  ones  used  evidently  as  the  homes  of 
factory-hands,  for  I  could  see  the  men  entering 
the  dark  passages  where  narrow  staircases  con- 
nected the  dwelling-rooms  with  the  street. 

Quite  at  random  I  walked  into  a  barber-shop. 

"  Can  you  direct  me  to  a  boarding-house  near 
by? "  I  asked  the  barber,  who,  dressed  in  soiled 
white,  sat  reading  a  newspaper  beside  the  stove. 

"  Sure,"  he  said,  obligingly,  as  he  rose  to  his 
feet  and  came  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  "  You 
just  go  up  them  steps,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the 
entry  next  door,  "  and  you'll  find  a  lady  that 
keeps  boarders.  Her  name's  Mrs.  Schulz.  You 
tell  her  that  I  sent  you." 

At  the  head  of  the  landing  I  stood  irresolute 
for  a  moment.  It  was  dark  after  the  unclouded 
mid-day.  The  light  that  entered  came  through 
the  narrow  opening  of  a  door  at  the  end  of  the 
passage,  which  stood  ajar  and  which  communi- 


A   HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN  A   FACTORY      159 

cated  with  a  front  room,  where  there  seemed  to 
be  a  flood  of  sunlight.  The  prospect  in  the  other 
direction  was  not  so  bright.  I  was  beginning  to 
see  faintly,  and  could  eventually  make  out  the 
figures  of  a  dozen  or  more  working-men,  who  sat 
about  a  table  in  a  dim  dining-room,  eating  hur- 
riedly their  dinner,  with  a  noise  of  much  clatter, 
and  with  bursts  of  loud  talk  and  of  hearty 
laughter.  In  a  deeper  recess,  and  through  a  short, 
dark,  communicating  passage,  was  a  kitchen  full 
of  steam  and  the  vapors  of  cooking  food,  through 
which  came  the  light  from  the  rear  windows  with 
the  effect  of  shining  vaguely  through  a  fog. 

Summoned,  I  know  not  how,  Mrs.  Schulz 
stepped  out  into  the  passage.  I  knew  instantly 
that  I  should  be  provided  for.  I  could  not  see 
her  clearly,  but  her  quiet,  self-respecting  manner 
was  reassuring  from  the  start. 

"  I've  just  got  a  job  in  the  factory,"  I  ex- 
plained at  once.  "  Can  you  take  me  as  a 
boarder? " 

"  I  guess  I  can,"  she  answered,  cordially.  "  Do 
you  want  your  dinner?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  and  tried  not  to  say  it  too 
eagerly. 

"  Then  come  right  in.  You  haven't  any  too 
much  time,"  she  added,  considerately. 

At  the  vacant  place  which  she  indicated  for 


100  THE   WORKERS 

me  at  the  table  I  sat  down  between  a  workman 
of  my  own  age  and  a  hunchback  operative  who 
was  probably  ten  years  our  senior. 

"How  are  you?"  said  the  first  man,  in  the 
midst  of  the  momentary  lull  which  fell  upon  the 
room,  while  I  passed  my  first  inspection. 

My  reply  was  drowned  for  farther  ears  than 
his  in  the  recurrent  flow  of  talk  about  the  table. 
The  men  had  just  finished  their  first  course,  but 
Mrs.  Schulz  brought  in  for  me  a  plate  of  hot 
vegetable  soup,  steaming  with  a  savoriness  which 
was  reviving  in  itself.  My  cordial  neighbor 
dropped  out  of  the  general  conversation  and  de- 
voted himself  to  me.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  agreeable.  He  was  as  natural  as  a  child, 
and  genial  to  the  point  of  readiest  laughter.  Like 
most  of  the  other  men,  he  sat  coatless  in  his  work- 
ing-clothes, his  face  and  hands  black  with  the 
grime  of  the  machine-shop  where  he  worked,  and 
his  eyes  shining  with  a  light  all  the  merrier  for 
their  dark  setting. 

A  young  American,  a  farmer's  son,  he  was 
recently  come  to  Chicago  from  his  home  in  cen- 
tral Iowa,  and  was  making  his  way  as  a  factory- 
hand  and  liked  it  greatly.  His  name  was  Albert. 
All  of  this  information  I  gathered  in  barter  for 
an  equal  share  of  my  personal  history,  exchanged 
while  we  both  ate  heartily  of  a  dinner  of  boiled 


A   HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN   A   FACTORY      161 

meat  and  mashed  potatoes,  and  stewed  tomatoes 
and  bread  and  coffee,  and  finally  a  slice  of  pump- 
kin pie,  all  of  them  excellent  of  their  kind  and 
most  excellently  cooked ;  and,  although  not  neatly 
served,  yet  with  as  great  a  regard  to  neatness  as 
the  circumstances  allowed. 

My  interest  through  the  meal,  aside  from  the 
food,  was  chiefly  in  Albert,  but  I  caught,  too,  the 
drift  of  the  general  talk.  It  was  directed  at  one 
Clarence,  a  fair-haired,  fair-skinned,  well-man- 
nered youth  who  sat  opposite  us  and  at  an  end 
of  the  line.  One  noticed  him  immediately  in  the 
contrast  which  he  made  with  the  other  men,  for 
he  was  dressed  in  a  "  boiled  "  shirt  and  a  collar, 
and  he  wore  a  neat  black  coat  and  a  black  cravat. 
It  appeared  that  he  had  been  promoted,  on  the 
day  before,  from  a  subordinate  position  in  one  of 
the  machine-shops  to  the  supervision  of  the  tool- 
room of  the  factory.  On  this  morning  for  the 
first  time  he  had  gone  to  work  dressed,  not  in  the 
usual  blue  jeans,  but  as  one  of  the  clerical  force. 
The  men  were  chaffing  him  on  the  change.  Curi- 
ously enough,  from  their  point  of  view,  his  work- 
ing-days were  over.  There  was  no  least  disturb- 
ance in  their  personal  attitude  to  the  man  nor 
in  their  feeling  for  him  as  a  fellow.  They 
recognized  the  change  of  status  as  a  promo- 
tion, and  you  readily  caught  the  note  of  sin- 
II 


162  THE   WORKERS 

cere  congratulation  in  their  banter,  and  the  boy 
bore  his  honors  modestly  and  like  a  man.  Yet  it 
was  a  change  of  status  most  complete,  for  he  had 
ceased  to  be  a  worker.  To  their  way  of  thinking 
there  may  be  forms  of  toil  which  are  hard  and 
even  exhausting,  but  only  that  is  "  work  "  which 
brings  your  hands  into  immediate  contact  with 
the  materials  of  production  in  their  making  from 
the  raw  or  in  their  transportation.  The  principle 
is  a  broad  one,  incapable  of  application  in  full  de- 
tail, but,  as  a  principle,  it  figures  in  the  minds 
of  the  workers  as  an  unquestioned  generalization 
that  men  work  only  with  their  hands  and  in 
forms  of  begriming  labor. 

Like  Albert,  Clarence,  too,  was  an  American, 
a  youth  from  a  village  home  in  Ohio,  and  with  the 
promise  of  a  successful  hazard  of  his  fortunes  in 
the  city.  I  employ  my  versions  of  their  Christian 
names  because  these  were  the  only  appellations 
in  use  about  the  table. 

The  meal  was  far  too  short  for  any  general  ac- 
quaintance among  the  men,  and  at  its  end  we  all 
hurried  back  to  the  factory.  Barry  was  awaiting 
me  beside  the  truck;  as  we  began  the  rounds  of 
the  afternoon's  work  he  questioned  me  with  in- 
terest about  my  success  in  getting  a  dinner.  For 
another  five  continuous  hours  we  carted  tongues 
and  stacked  them. 


A   HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN  A  FACTORY     163 

The  hands  had  been  working  by  gas-light  for 
nearly  an  hour  when  the  time  came  for  quitting 
the  day's  labor.  There  was  no  rush  now  in  leav- 
ing the  factory.  We  crowded  out  through  the 
gate,  but  under  no  high  pressure,  and  the  moving 
mass  disintegrated  and  disappeared  as  magically 
as  it  had  formed  in  the  early  morning.  Beside  the 
entrance  idle  men  were  again  waiting,  but  their 
number  was  very  few  in  contrast  with  the  morn- 
ing crowds,  and  their  apparent  purpose  was  a 
personal  interview  with  the  superintendent. 

Mrs.  Schulz's  boarders  had  soon  reassembled, 
this  time  in  her  kitchen.  Everything  was  in 
readiness  for  us.  A  row  of  tin  basins  stood  in  a 
long  sink  which  extended  under  the  rear  windows 
nearly  the  length  of  the  room;  buckets  of  hot 
water  were  convenient,  and  at  the  pump  at  one 
end  of  the  sink  we  could  temper  the  water  in  the 
basins  to  our  liking.  Finally,  there  were  cakes  of 
soap  cut  from  large  bars,  and  the  usual  coarse 
towels  hanging  from  rollers  on  the  walls.  With 
sleeves  rolled  up  and  our  shirts  wide  open  at  the 
neck,  we  took  our  turns  at  the  basins.  It  was  in- 
teresting to  watch  the  faces  of  the  mechanics 
emerge  from  the  washing  in  frequent  changes  of 
water  to  their  natural  flesh-color,  in  which  the 
features  could  be  clearly  distinguished. 

The  few  minutes  during  which  we  had  to  wait 


164  THE   WORKERS 

before  the  call  to  supper  were  spent  in  the  front 
room,  which  was  the  sitting-room  for  the  boarders 
and  answered  to  the  lobby  in  the  logging-camp. 
Two  windows  looked  out  upon  the  street  and 
commanded  a  farther  view  of  the  factory-yard 
and  buildings.  The  room  was  heated  by  a  cylin- 
drical iron  stove,  standing  near  the  inner  wall 
upon  a  disc  of  zinc,  that  served  to  protect  a  well- 
worn  carpet  with  which  the  floor  was  covered. 
From  a  square  wooden  table  in  the  centre  a  large 
oil-lamp  flooded  the  room  with  light  and  brought 
out  in  startling  vividness  the  pink  rose-buds 
which  in  monotonous  identity  of  design  streaked 
the  walls  in  long  diagonal  lines,  broken  only  by 
an  occasional  chromo  or  a  picture  cut  from  an  il- 
lustrated print.  There  was  an  abundant  supply 
of  wooden  chairs,  on  which  the  men  were  seated, 
for  the  most  part  about  the  stove,  and  there  was 
one  large  arm-chair  on  rockers,  where  sat  Mr. 
Schulz  with  the  next  to  the  youngest  child  in  his 
arms,  an  infant  of  between  two  and  three.  A 
girl  of  perhaps  seven  years,  and  a  boy  of  nearly 
five,  were  playing  together  on  the  floor,  and  there 
was  yet  another  child,  for  while  we  were  washing 
in  the  kitchen  I  had  heard  the  fretful  cry  of  a 
baby  from  a  dark  chamber  opening  from  that 
room. 

Two  of  the  men  were  intent  upon  the  girl  who 


A   HAND-TRUCKMAN  IN  A  FACTORY      155 

lay  in  her  father's  lap.  They  were  rivals  for  her 
favor,  and  both  were  trying  to  coax  her  away. 
When  she  at  last  put  out  her  arms  to  one  of  them, 
he  tossed  her  toward  the  ceiling  with  a  shout  of 
glee  at  his  triumph  over  the  other  man. 

After  supper  we  all  regathered  in  the  sitting- 
room.  None  of  the  men,  so  far  as  I  could  see, 
went  out  for  the  evening.  Some  of  them  read  the 
newspapers  of  the  day,  and  four  had  presently 
started  a  game  of  "  High,  Low,  Jack,"  at  the 
table,  with  the  result  that  most  of  the  others  were 
soon  gathered  about  the  players  in  excited  inter- 
est, watching  the  varying  fortunes  of  the  game 
and  giving  vent  to  their  feelings  in  boisterous  out- 
bursts. 

I  sat  beside  the  fire  talking  to  Mr.  Schulz. 
There  was  inexpressible  satisfaction  in  the  feel- 
ing of  raison  detre  which  one  had  in  being  a 
worker  with  a  steady  job  once  more  and  a  decent 
place  in  which  to  live.  A  boarding-house  is  not 
a  synonym  for  home,  and  yet  it  may  stir  the  do- 
mestic instincts  deeply  in  the  contrasts  which  it 
offers  with  the  homeless  life  of  the  streets.  The 
unquestioning  hospitality  with  which  I  had  been 
accepted  as  a  guest  was  in  keeping  with  the  best 
of  my  experience  so  far.  There  was  no  sugges- 
tion of  my  paying  anything  in  advance,  though  I 
had  no  security  to  offer  beyond  the  fact  that  I  was 


166  THE  WORKERS 

regularly  employed  in  the  factory  and  my  prom- 
ise to  pay  promptly  out  of  the  first  instalment  of 
my  wages. 

Mrs.  Schulz  had  offered  me  board  and  lodg- 
ing at  four  dollars  a  week,  or  at  four  dollars  and  a 
quarter  if  I  wished  a  room  to  myself.  It  was  the 
last  bargain  with  which  I  closed  when  I  was 
shown  the  only  vacant  room.  It  opened  from  the 
passage  near  the  head  of  the  landing  and  was  per- 
haps seven  feet  by  six.  A  single  bed  filled  most 
of  its  area,  and  the  rest  was  crowded  with  a  chair 
and  a  small  stand  which  supported  an  oil-lamp 
under  a  mirror  on  the  wall.  Some  nails  driven 
into  the  door  and  along  the  wall  beside  it,  served 
the  purpose  of  a  closet.  Light  and  air  entered  by 
a  window  which  opened  only  a  foot  or  two  from  a 
side-wall  of  the  next  building. 

Cheerless  as  the  room  was  and  far  from  clean, 
it  yet  had  about  it  all  the  essentials  of  privacy, 
and  at  a  little  past  eight  o'clock  I  went  to  bed 
with  almost  the  sense  of  luxury  after  a  fortnight's 
experience  of  station-houses  and  cheap  lodgings. 

At  six  in  the  morning  we  were  called  by  Mrs. 
Schulz,  who  had  already  been  up  for  an  hour  or 
more  preparing  our  breakfast,  with  the  help  of  a 
hired  girl.  The  men  turned  out  sleepy  and  half- 
dressed  into  the  kitchen  to  wash  themselves,  and 
then  we  sat  down  to  a  breakfast  of  "  mush,"  meat 


A   HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN  A  FACTORY      167 

and  potatoes,  coffee  and  bread.  The  factory-bell 
was  ringing  by  the  time  that  we  had  finished,  and 
there  was  a  rush  to  get  within  the  gate  before 
the  last  taps  marked  the  advent  of  seven  o'clock. 

The  routine  of  factory  work  does  not  lend  it- 
self to  varied  narrative,  and  yet  Barry's  work  and 
mine  was  far  from  the  monotony  of  much  of  the 
labor  which  we  saw  about  us.  There  was  a  grow- 
ing supply  of  tongues  in  the  paint-shop,  sufficient 
to  keep  us  busy  for  several  days,  and  while  the 
work  of  loading  and  carting  and  stacking  them 
was  not  hard  in  itself,  ten  hours  of  it  daily  was 
enough  to  send  a  man  very  hungry  to  his  meals 
and  thoroughly  tired  to  his  bed. 

I  was  soon  transferred  from  Grist's  department 
to  one  of  the  packing-rooms,  where,  through  the 
remaining  weeks  of  my  service,  I  worked  as  a 
general  utility  man  under  the  orders  of  a  short, 
muscular  foreman  of  singularly  mild  manner, 
who  appeared  to  have  scruples  against  swearing, 
but  who  was  none  the  less  vigilant  and  effective  in 
his  management.  Most  of  the  work  of  his  de- 
partment, as  in  all  the  departments  of  the  factory, 
came  under  the  piece-work  system,  and  I  was 
simply  one  of  the  two  or  three  common  laborers 
who,  under  his  commands,  attended  to  the  odds 
and  ends  of  jobs. 

In  one  corner  a  man  was  packing  boxes  with 


168  THE  WORKERS 

the  subordinate  parts  of  mowers — a  very  interest- 
ing process,  for  the  boxes  were  of  such  a  size  as  to 
exactly  hold  all  the  loose  parts  when  packed  in 
a  certain  relation  to  one  another,  and  the  untiring 
swiftness  with  which  the  packer  drew  his  sup- 
plies from  their  various  bins  and  adjusted  them 
in  the  box  and  nailed  the  lid  upon  them  was  fas- 
cinating in  itself.  I  was  sometimes  employed  in 
carting  these  boxes  on  a  hand-truck,  through  a 
long  run-way,  to  a  warehouse  and  storing  them 
there. 

There  were  mowers  to  be  shipped  to  foreign 
markets,  and  these  had  all  to  be  done  up  in  boxes. 
Three  or  four  of  us  would  be  employed  for  days 
together  in  bringing  the  mowers  up  the  run-way 
from  the  warehouse  and  further  separating  them 
into  their  parts  and  packing  them  in  large  boxes 
and  nailing  down  the  covers,  upon  which  after- 
ward appeared  directions  to  distant  ports,  some 
to  Russia,  and  others  as  far  off  even  as  Australian 
and  New  Zealand  towns.  A  paint-shop  was  also 
connected  with  this  department  of  the  factory, 
where  painting  was  done  in  the  wholesale  fashion 
employed  for  the  binders,  and  from  it  I  often 
carted  the  portions  of  the  machines  which  were 
ready  for  the  warehouse. 

Some  of  the  jobs  held  steadily  for  days  to- 
gether, and  the  foreman  was  never  without  work 


A   HAND-TRUCKMAN    IN   A   FACTORY      169 

to  give  me.  I  could  but  feel  a  growing  liking  for 
him,  for,  although  I  was  far  from  being  an  effi- 
cient workman,  he  was  patient  with  my  awkward 
efforts,  and  he  accepted  my  mere  dogged  persever- 
ance as  evidence  of  a  willingness  on  my  part 
which  reconciled  him  to  me  as  a  hand. 

A  like  consideration  had  been  shown  me  by  the 
men  at  the  boarding-house.  They  accepted  me 
unhesitatingly  as  a  workingman,  but  still  I  felt 
that  I  had  my  way  to  make  among  them,  and 
very  justly,  for  they  were  piece-workers  all  of 
them,  earning  fifteen  dollars  a  week  at  the  very 
least,  some  of  them  much  more,  while  I  was 
merely  a  common  laborer  at  a  dollar  and  a  half  a 
day.  Their  superiority  to  me  was  only  the  more 
apparent  when  there  came  among  us,  a  few  days 
after  my  arrival,  a  young  Englishman  from  Ja- 
maica, who  had  secured  a  job  at  common  labor  in 
the  factory;  for  he,  too,  was  far  ahead  of  me, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  he  was  promoted  to 
piece-work  in  one  of  the  better-paid  departments. 

There  was  no  discrimination  against  me.  The 
men  were  perfectly  friendly,  but  for  the  most 
part  they  had  been  associated  for  some  time  in 
their  work  and  in  their  life  in  the  boarding-house., 
and  I  was  simply  not  of  their  set.  The  barriers 
which  prevented  entire  freedom  of  intercourse 
were  my  own  limitations  and  were  never  of  their 


170  THE   WORKERS 

making,  for  they  made  the  most  generous  ad- 
vances when  we  had  lived  together  for  a  time, 
and  no  doubt  I  could  eventually  have  risen  to  be 
one  of  them  on  equal  terms. 

They  were  nearly  all  young  Americans.  Clar- 
ence and  Albert  were  representative  of  the  lot. 
Ned,  the  hunchback  operative,  was  older  than 
most  of  us,  but  he,  too,  was  a  native,  of  public- 
school  education  and  decent  antecedents,  and  he 
made  a  very  good  wage  as  a  piece-worker  in 
some  department  of  the  factory.  Nothing  that  I 
saw  among  the  men  charmed  me  more  than  their 
treatment  of  Ned.  He  had  an  ungovernable  tem- 
per and  a  crabbed,  sullen  disposition,  which  had 
been  fostered  by  much  suffering  and  an  intense 
mortification  due  to  his  deformity,  which  he 
rarely  forgot,  apparently.  At  times  he  was  as  ex- 
asperating as  a  spoiled,  petulant  child,  but  the 
men  endured  him  always  with  an  evenness  of 
buoyant  good-humor  so  genuine  that  it  never 
chafed  him,  and  it  sometimes  transported  him, 
in  spite  of  himself,  to  a  mood  in  sympathy  with 
their  own,  in  which  he  could  be  one  of  the  best 
fellows  of  the  lot. 

It  was  not  long  before  I  knew  that  the  man 
who  was  held  in  highest  regard  by  the  others  was 
Dennis.  The  reasons  for  this  did  not  appear  at 
first.  Dennis  was  of  about  the  average  age 


A  HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN  A   FACTORY      171 

among  us,  a  man  of  between  twenty-five  and 
thirty,  an  Irish- American  of  good  appearance  and 
a  gentlemanlike  reserve.  The  men  looked  up  to 
him  and  paid  a  certain  deference  to  his  views  in 
a  way  which  puzzled  me,  for  he  never  played  the 
role  of  leader,  being  far  less  outspoken  than  some 
of  the  others,  and  moving  among  them  always  in 
a  quiet,  unassuming  manner  which  laid  no  claim 
to  distinction. 

By  chance  I  learned  that  he  was  the  best-paid 
operative  in  the  house,  having  a  position  of  some 
importance  in  a  machine-shop  of  the  factory,  and 
I  noticed  that  he  spent  much  of  his  leisure  in  the 
study  of  mechanical  problems.  He  did  not  hold 
himself  aloof  from  the  evening  game  of  cards, 
but  he  would  quit  it  early  and  would  soon  be  ab- 
sorbed in  his  book  in  one  corner  of  the  room, 
where  the  noise  seemed  never  to  disturb  him. 
Moreover,  I  came  to  realize  that  in  certain  impor- 
tant social  matters  Dennis  was  an  authority.  He 
would  leave  his  work  as  black  as  the  blackest  man 
from  the  shops,  but  on  Saturday  afternoon,  when 
we  got  off  at  five  o'clock,  half  an  hour  earlier  than 
usual,  he  would  come  out  after  supper  ready  for 
the  evening's  gayety,  dressed  in  what  was  un- 
hesitatingly accepted  as  the  height  of  the  fashion. 
Saturday  evenings  were  always  devoted  to  pleas- 
ure, and  none  of  the  men  was  better  informed 


172  THE   WORKERS 

than  was  Dennis  as  to  the  public  balls  which 
were  available  and  which  performance  at  the 
theatres  (always  spoken  of  as  a  "  show  ")  was  best 
worth  a  visit.  As  a  workman  of  high  grade  and 
as  a  man  of  fashion  and  a  social  mentor  with 
much  occult  knowledge  of  social  form,  he  was 
yielded  the  first  place.  There  was,  moreover,  a 
certain  punctiliousness  about  him  which  only 
served  to  heighten  his  standing.  It  mattered  not 
how  late  he  had  been  out  on  Saturday  night,  I  al- 
ways found  Dennis  at  his  place  for  a  seven  o'clock 
breakfast  on  Sunday  morning,  and  saw  him  start 
promptly  for  mass. 

He  was  very  evidently  a  favorite  with  Mrs. 
Schulz,  and  with  small  wonder,  for  he  was  always 
most  considerately  kind  to  her  and  to  her  chil- 
dren ;  but  I  thought  that  her  liking  for  him  grew 
quite  as  much  out  of  her  admiration  for  his  strict 
regard  to  his  church  duties.  She  went  to  early 
mass  herself,  but  she  never  failed  to  have  break- 
fast ready  for  Dennis  at  exactly  seven  o'clock. 

Mr.  Schuk  and  she  were  devout  Catholics,  only 
I  could  but  admire  her  devotion  the  more.  It 
seemed  to  me  to  be  put  to  so  crucial  a  test.  With 
but  a  raw  Swedish  girl  to  help  her,  she  had  the 
care  of  her  five  children  besides  all  the  cooking 
and  other  housework  for  a  dozen  boarders  whose 
meals  must  be  served  on  the  minute.  I  am  sure 


A  HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN   A   FACTORY    173 

that  I  never  saw  her  lose  her  temper,  and  I  think 
that  I  never  heard  her  complain,  which  is  the 
greater  wonder  when  one  takes  into  account  the 
fact  that  she  was  the  sole  bread-winner  of  the 
family.  Mr.  Schulz  had  had  a  job  as  a  night- 
watchman,  but  had  lost  it,  and  was  now  looking 
for  work — not  too  conscientiously,  I  fear,  for  he 
impressed  me  as  a  weak  man  who  found  his  wife's 
support  a  welcome  escape  from  a  personal  strug- 
gle for  existence.  He  had,  at  least,  the  negative 
virtue  of  sobriety,  and  the  positive  one  of  loyalty 
to  church  duty,  and  in  the  house  he  perhaps 
could  not  have  served  his  wife  to  better  purpose 
than  by  taking  care  of  the  children  as  he  did.  He 
was  certainly  very  proud  of  Mrs.  Schulz.  One 
day  he  confided  to  me  the  fact  that  she  was  a  cook 
when  he  married  her,  and  that  in  her  day  she  had 
served  in  some  of  the  palaces  on  Michigan  Ave- 
nue. Such  an  experience  explained  the  admira- 
ble cooking  of  the  simple  fare  which  she  gave  us, 
and  the  homelike  management  of  her  house ;  and 
her  knowledge  and  skill  in  these  domestic  matters 
bore  no  small  relation,  I  thought,  to  the  spirit  of 
contentment  among  the  men,  which  held  them 
to  their  quiet  evenings  in  her  sitting-room  against 
the  allurements  of  the  town. 

Her  sheer  physical  endurance  was  a  marvel. 
It  was  the  unflinching  courage  of  a  brave  soul, 


174  THE   WORKERS 

for  she  had  little  strength  besides.  Very  tall  and 
slight,  emaciated  almost  to  gauntness,  she  had  a 
long,  thin  face  with  sunken  cheeks  and  a  dark 
complexion  and  jet-black  hair,  and  round,  soft, 
innocent  eyes,  which,  matched  with  her  indomit- 
able spirit,  were  eloquent  of  the  love  which  is 
"  comrade  to  the  lesser  faith  that  sees  the  course 
of  human  things,"  and  seeing  finds  life  worth  liv- 
ing and  is  willing  to  endure. 

The  absence  of  self -consciousness  from  the  mem- 
bers of  this  household  lent  a  peculiar  attractive- 
ness to  the  life  there.  There  was  nothing  morbid 
in  their  attitude  to  themselves  nor  in  their  rela- 
tion to  one  another.  Life  was  so  obviously  their 
master,  and  they  so  implicitly  obedient  to  its  con- 
trol. You  could  lose  in  a  measure  the  thought 
of  self-directed  effort  to  be  something  or  do  some- 
thing, in  the  sense  that  you  got  of  nearness  to  the 
spontaneity  of  primal  force.  Mrs.  Schulz,  for 
example,  never  impressed  one  as  trying  to  exer- 
cise a  certain  influence  in  obedience  to  a  volition 
formed  upon  a  preconceived  plan,  but  rather  as 
being  what  she  was  as  the  expression  of  a  life  within 
and  exercising  an  influence  which  was  dominant 
by  reason  of  its  native  virtue.  And  the  men  were 
never  awkward  and  constrained  in  their  courteous 
manner  toward  her,  as  they  would  have  been  had 
this  been  prompted  by  a  sense  of  formal  polite- 


A  HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN  A   FACTORY      175 

ness,  instead  of  being,  as  it  was,  their  spontaneous 
tribute  to  her  gentle  ladyhood. 

One  wondered  at  first  how  such  serenity  would 
weather  the  storms.  And  when  they  came,  the 
wonder  grew  at  the  further  naturalness  which 
they  revealed. 

Monday  mornings  were  apt  to  be  prolific  of 
bad  weather.  The  long,  monotonous  week 
loomed  before  us,  and  our  nerves  were  unstrung 
with  the  violent  reaction  bred  of  over-indulgence 
in  the  freedom  of  a  holiday.  Our  tempers,  as  a 
result,  were  all  out  of  tune,  and  there  was  no 
merging  of  individuality  in  the  harmony  of  a 
home.  One  was  reminded  of  the  discordant  harp- 
ing, each  on  its  own  string,  of  all  the  instruments 
of  an  orchestra  before  they  blend  melodiously  in 
the  accord  of  the  overture.  The  hired  girl,  awk- 
ward and  ungainly  and  dense,  had  neglected 
the  mush  and  let  it  burn,  and  now  with  stupid 
vacancy  in  her  dull  eyes  she  moved  about  more 
in  the  way  than  of  any  service.  The  children, 
half -dressed  in  their  pitiful,  soiled  garments,  were 
sprawling  underfoot,  quarrelling  among  them- 
selves and  whimpering  in  their  appeals  for  their 
mother's  intervention.  Mrs.  Schulz,  at  her  wits' 
end  to  get  breakfast  ready  promptly,  was  bending 
over  a  stove  whose  fire  smouldered  and  smoked 
and  would  not  burn  briskly  in  the  raw  east  wind 


176  THE   WORKERS 

which  was  blowing  down  the  chimney,  and  at  the 
same  time  there  grated  on  her  ears  the  wails  of  the 
children  and  the  ill-tempered  complaints  of  the 
men  and  the  stupid  questions  of  the  hired  girl, 
and  all  the  while  her  nerves  were  throbbing  to  the 
dull  agony  of  a  toothache.  The  men,  roused  from 
insufficient  sleep,  were  crowding  into  the  over- 
crowded kitchen,  hectoring  one  another  for  their 
slowness  at  the  basins;  one  loud  in  his  complaint 
over  the  loss  of  some  article  of  dress,  another  in- 
sistent in  his  demand  for  a  turn  at  the  mirror, 
and  all  of  them  perilously  near  the  verge  of  a  vio- 
lent outbreak.  There  was  much  swearing  of  a 
very  sincere  kind  and  much  plain  speaking  of 
personal  views  without  circumlocution  or  reserva- 
tion, but  in  the  end  the  storm  would  spend  its 
fury  and  pass.  And  the  marvel  of  it  was  in  the 
completeness  of  the  clearing.  The  unrestrained 
vent  of  ill-temper  would  be  followed  by  no  har- 
boring of  malice.  It  was  as  though  the  men,  who 
had  freed  themselves  of  a  load  of  ill-feeling,  were 
prepared  to  continue  unhampered  in  the  ease  of 
agreeable  association.  The  secret  of  it  lay,  I  pre- 
sume, in  the  absence  of  malignant  antagonisms. 
The  distempers  were  merely  the  results  of  the  com- 
mon attrition  of  life.  At  bottom  these  hard-work- 
ing, self-respecting  persons  respected  and  liked 
one  another,  and  in  the  intimacy  of  the  crowded 


A  HAND  TRUCKMAN   IN  A   FACTORY      177 

tenement  they  lived  in  relative  comfort  on  no 
other  possible  terms  than  those  of  common  liking 
and  respect. 

The  factory  itself  further  illustrated  the  peri- 
odic unevennesses  of  temper.  Wot  that  they  were 
strictly  periodic  in  the  home.  Mondays  were  apt 
to  witness  them,  but  there  was  no  normal  regu- 
larity in  their  occurrence,  for  they  might  crop  out 
at  any  time.  But  Monday  mornings  in  the  fac- 
tory were  almost  fatally  sure  of  their  emergence. 
You  could  not  escape  the  feeling  of  unwonted 
disturbance  both  in  the  humor  of  the  men  and  in 
the  progress  of  their  work.  But  nothing  could 
have  been  more  potent  in  coaxing  them  again 
into  an  accordant  frame  of  mind  than  the  routine 
of  factory  labor.  The  very  doing  of  what  had 
become  to  them  a  second  nature  by  a  quickness 
of  hand  which  itself  was  a  mark  of  mastery, 
seemed  to  win  them  back  to  cheerful  acceptance 
of  life.  I  have  often  seen  the  men  at  the  board- 
ing-house leave  the  breakfast-table  in  moods  that 
"  varied  mostly  for  the  worse,"  and  return  to  it 
at  noon  in  high  spirits  that  were  finely  attune. 

There  is  a  monotony  about  piece-work  which 
must  take  on  at  times  the  quality  of  a  maddening 
horror.  I  can  bear  no  personal,  testimony  to  it, 
because  I  did  not  rise  to  the  position  of  a  piece- 
worker. The  phases  of  the  system  which  I  saw, 
12 


178  THE   WORKERS 

however,  in  the  limited  insight  into  its  practical 
working  to  be  gained  in  my  range  in  the  factory 
as  a  common  laborer,  impressed  me  rather  with 
its  advantages.  Among  the  day-laborers  here 
there  was  apparent  at  once  the  same  deadly  tin- 
interest  in  their  work  which  is  characteristic  of 
their  class  in  the  present  ordering  of  such  labor. 
The  attitude  is  that  of  irresponsible  school-boys 
in  their  feeling  of  natural  hostility  to  their  mas- 
ters in  the  mutual  struggle  over  the  prescribed 
tasks.  But  among  the  laborers  it  takes  on  the 
tragedy  of  the  relation  of  grown  men  to  the  seri- 
ous business  of  their  lives.  Interest  in  their 
work?  Not  the  faintest.  Sense  of  responsibility 
for  it?  Not  the  dimmest.  Any  day  you  could 
see  the  bearded  father  of  a  family  shirk  his  task 
in  a  momentary  absence  of  the  boss,  or  steal  tru- 
ant minutes  from  his  time  in  idling  on  an  errand, 
with  as  puerile  a  spirit  as  that  which  prompts  a 
stroke  of  mischief  in  school-hours. 

The  piece-system  lifts  the  labor  instantly  from 
this  plane  to  one  where  the  motive  of  self-interest 
conspicuously  enters.  A  man  is  insured  from  the 
first  of  at  least  the  wage  of  day's  labor;  his  own 
industry  and  deftness  are  then  the  factors  in  de- 
termining his  earnings  up  to  a  certain  limit.  For 
I  soon  found  that  a  hand  was  not  free  to  employ 
his  utmost  skill  when  he  became  an  expert. 


A  HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN  A  FACTOEY      179 

There  seemed  to  be  a  tacit  agreement  in  each  de- 
partment of  the  factory  as  to  what  should  con- 
stitute the  maximum  of  day's  labor.  Below  that 
a  man  might  fall  if  he  chose,  but  beyond  it  he 
was  not  at  liberty  to  go.  And  the  reason  was 
very  obvious.  Even  a  few  men  in  continually 
passing,  by  any  considerable  margin,  the  accepted 
daily  average  would  inevitably  produce  the  result 
of  a  cut  in  the  pro  rata  price  until  wages  were 
down  again  to  the  accustomed  level.  The  system 
gives  a  man  an  incentive  to  work  and  to  develop 
his  skill,  but,  in  its  practical  operation,  it  holds 
him  rigorously  to  the  level  of  mediocre  attain- 
ment. 

Barry  incidentally  pointed  this  out  to  me  with 
striking  clearness  one  day  while  we  were  carting 
tongues.  Two  of  the  varnishers  were  missing 
from  the  paint-shop  when  we  went  up  for  our  first 
loads.  Barry  remarked  on  their  absence,  with 
the  comment  that  they  were  certain  to  be  on  hand 
at  half -past  nine  o'clock. 

It  appears  that  if  an  employee  misses  the  open 
factory-gate  in  the  early  morning  by  ever  so  lit- 
tle, he  may  not  enter  then  until  the  end  of  two 
hours  and  a  half,  which  marks  the  close  of  the 
first  quarter  of  the  day's  work. 

True  to  Barry's  prediction,  we  presently  found 
both  varnishers  at  their  places,  and  when,  in  the 


180  THE   WORKER9 

late  afternoon,  he  asked  them,  with  the  frankness 
of  working-people  in  such  matters,  as  to  how 
much  they  had  done,  he  again  found  himself 
verified,  since  each  had  achieved  the  prescribed 
amount,  and  so  had  earned  full  pay.  They  had 
simply  worked  at  a  greater  speed  than  usual; 
and  they  might,  so  far  as  the  time  was  concerned, 
have  accomplished  this  every  day,  except  that  a 
man  would  soon  gain  a  bad  name  by  being  habit- 
ually late,  and  his  promptness  at  seven  o'clock 
would  be  quickly  insured  by  a  cut  in  the  rate 
paid  for  his  form  of  labor. 

It  was  a  very  limited  view  of  the  factory  as  a 
whole  that  I  could  get  from  the  post  of  an  un- 
skilled worker  in  one  of  its  departments,  but  what 
growing  familiarity  was  possible  served  to  in- 
crease the  sense  of  wonder  at  the  possibilities  of 
such  highly  organized  methods  of  production. 

There  were  the  great,  substantial  buildings 
themselves  with  their  ingenious  adjustments  of 
parts,  so  related  as  to  facilitate  to  the  utmost  the 
processes  of  manufacture  and  shipment  at  the 
lowest  cost  and  with  the  least  friction.  There 
were  the  lines  of  railway  which  entered  the 
grounds,  by  means  of  which  the  machines,  loaded 
into  cars  from  the  platforms  of  the  factory,  could 
be  forwarded  without  change  to  every  quarter  of 
the  continent.  All  needed  materials,  to  the  small- 


A  HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN  A  FACTORY      181 

est  detail,  entered  the  factory  in  their  raw  forms, 
and  passed  out  as  finished  product,  delicately  ad- 
justed machines  ready  for  immediate  use.  The 
imagination  bounds  to  the  conception  of  the 
miraculous  ingenuity  of  instruments,  and  the 
trained  skill  of  operatives,  and  the  shrewd  co- 
ordination of  labor,  and,  above  all,  the  marvel- 
lous captaincy  by  which  all  this  differentiation 
is  systematized  and  is  ordered  and  directed  to  the 
effective  achievement  of  its  ends. 

The  large,  well-ventilated  rooms,  comfortably 
warmed  in  winter  and  admirably  supplied  with 
the  means  of  light  and  air,  are  a  part  of  the  gen- 
eral efficacy  of  the  system,  and  the  untiring  dex- 
terity of  the  men  gives  to  it  its  strongly  human 
interest.  There  is  a  fascination  in  their  move- 
ments which  determines  the  quality  of  the  attrac- 
tiveness of  the  whole.  You  see  no  feverish  haste 
in  the  speed  with  which  they  work,  but  rather 
the  even,  smooth,  unfaltering  sureness  which  is 
the  charm  of  mastery,  and  which  must  be  attend- 
ed by  its  satisfaction  as  well. 

I  witnessed  this  with  delight  among  the  men 
with  whom  I  lived.  Conversation  at  our  meals 
was  nearly  always  of  shop ;  at  dinner  and  supper 
especially  we  discussed  the  details  of  the  day's 
work.  Several  of  us  were  employed  at  construct- 
ing binders.  Albert  was  of  that  number.  He 


182  THE   WORKERS 

was  making  but  little  more  than  the  wage  of 
common  labor  when  I  first  knew  him,  but  his  in- 
come began  to  increase  with  his  increasing  effi- 
ciency, and  it  was  a  matter  of  great,  vital  interest 
to  us  all  to  hear  his  reports  each  day,  as  he  told  of 
a  fraction  of  a  binder  and  then  of  a  whole  one  in 
advance  upon  his  previous  work,  until  his  daily 
earnings  rose  to  two  dollars  and  a  half,  which  was 
accepted  in  his  department  as  the  normal  sum. 

Besides  these  elements  of  personal  interest  in 
piece-work  as  a  scheme  of  labor  and  the  gratifica- 
tion of  the  sense  of  effective  workmanship,  there 
entered  here  the  stimulus  of  ambition  based  upon 
excellent  chances  of  promotion.  The  factory- 
system  of  production  creates  strong  demand  for 
manual  skill,  and  stronger  still  for  the  capacity  of 
administration  and  control.  Why  the  realization 
of  these  facts  did  not  possess  more  thoroughly  the 
minds  of  the  common  laborers,  I  could  not  under- 
stand. They  were  strangely  impervious  to  their 
force,  for  nothing  could  have  been  more  noticeable 
than  the  alertness  of  the  managing  staff  in  watch- 
ing for  evidences  of  unusual  ability  among  the 
men.  It  was  not  at  all  uncommon  for  a  hand  who 
had  been  taken  on  as  a  day-laborer  to  be  pro- 
moted, as  a  result  of  his  intelligence  and  industry, 
to  some  department  of  piece-work.  Nearly  every 
foreman  in  the  factory  is  said  to  have  begun  far 


A  HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN  A  FACTORY      183 

down  the  scale,  and  Barry's  account  of  the  career 
of  the  assistant  manager  I  have  heard  confirmed. 

During  my  short  stay  I  was  actually  witness  to 
the  progress  of  two  men  who  came  in  as  day- 
laborers,  the  young  Englishman  from  Jamaica 
and  a  stalwart,  handsome  Swede  who  secured  a 
job  and  joined  us  at  the  boarding-house  about  a 
fortnight  ago.  Clarence  earned  a  promotion  and 
got  it  at  the  time  of  my  coming  to  the  factory, 
and  I  have  seen  Albert's  rise  from  a  position  re- 
moved by  very  little  from  that  of  unskilled  labor 
to  that  of  a  workman  whose  skill  commands  the 
sum  of  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  Dennis  is  a  type 
of  craftsman  whose  future  it  is  not  difficult  to 
predict.  Conscientious  and  industrious  and  per- 
severing, endowed  with  rare  ability  and  real 
capacity  for  work,  his  progress  seems  assured, 
and  a  well-paid,  authoritative  position  an  ultimate 
logical  certainty. 

All  these  are  of  the  best  class  of  factory-work- 
ers that  I  came  to  know.  There  are  other  classes 
quite  as  clearly  defined,  and  most  of  them  have 
their  representatives  about  our  table.  Men,  for 
example,  who  have  an  honest  interest  in  their 
work  as  such,  and  who  have  risen  by  force  of  am- 
bition and  sheer  development  of  manual  skill  to 
good  positions  in  the  factory,  and  have  there 
stood  still,  their  congenital  qualities  incapable, 


184  THE  WORKERS 

presumably,  of  higher  efficiency.  But  sadder  far 
than  theirs  is  the  case  of  men  who  are  often  best 
endowed  with  native  cleverness  and  aptitude, 
who  rise  quickly  in  the  scale  of  promotion,  and 
who  might  rise  far  higher  than  they  do  but  for  the 
curse  of  their  careless  living.  They  know  no  in- 
terest in  their  work  nor  pleasure  in  its  doing.  To 
them  it  is  the  sordid  drudgery  by  which  they  gain 
the  means  of  gratifying  their  real  purposes  and 
desires.  With  sullen  perseverance  they  endure 
the  torment  of  labor,  with  pay-day  in  view  and 
then  Saturday  night  and  Sunday  with  their  mad 
revels  in  what  they  call  life.  The  future  is  a 
meaningless  word,  with  no  claim  upon  them  be- 
yond the  prospect  that  it  holds  of  more  indul- 
gence; the  present  is  their  sole  concern,  and  only 
with  reference  to  what  it  can  be  made  to  yield 
to  ruling  passions. 

From  some  phase  of  this  last  attitude  to  life 
none  of  the  men  whom  I  knew  personally  seemed 
to  be  entirely  free.  There  is  no  improvidence  like 
the  improvidence  of  the  poor.  Doubtless  there  is 
no  thrift  like  theirs,  but  among  these  young  men, 
with  all  of  life  before  them,  their  reckless  prodi- 
gality in  money-matters  assumed  at  times  an  ap- 
palling nature.  Some  of  them  made  no  pretence 
of  saving  anything,  and  the  few  who  did  save 
would  show  at  times  an  audacity  of  extravagance 


A  HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN   A   FACTORY      185 

to  match  with  the  wastefulness  of  the  worst. 
They  were  not  a  drinking  set  in  any  sense  of 
excessive  indulgence,  for  not  one  of  them  had  the 
reputation  of  a  drunkard,  and  their  spending  was 
much  of  it  in  comparatively  innocent  channels, 
but  it  was  monstrous  in  relation  to  their  means 
and  to  their  prospects  in  the  world. 

A  perfectly  well-recognized  philosophy  justi- 
fied it  to  their  minds. 

"  We'll  never  be  young  but  once,"  they  would 
say,  "  and  if  we  don't  have  a  good  time  now,  we 
never  will." 

A  good  time  was  often  secured  at  enormous 
cost.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  the  habitual 
dissipation,  or  whether  it  happens  to  be  the  vogue 
for  this  winter,  but  it  is  very  certain  that  to  the 
men  here  the  fancy-dress  ball  is  now  the  incom- 
parable attraction.  One  or  more  such  functions 
within  their  range  falls  on  nearly  every  Saturday 
night.  They  are  given  for  the  most  part  by  cer- 
tain "  Brotherhoods  "  and  labor  organizations, 
and  they  are  free,  apparently,  to  all  who  come 
dressed  in  a  manner  sufficiently  "  fancy  "  to  meet 
the  views  of  "  the  committee,"  and  pay  the  price 
of  a  ticket,  which  admits  "  self  and  lady." 

As  the  men  saw  the  night  approaching,  their 
talk  would  turn  more  and  more  to  the  absorbing 
subjects  of  costume  and  the  girls  whom  they 


180  THE    WORKERS 

meant  to  take  with  them.  There  are  shops  which 
do  business  at  letting  out  ready-made  disguises  for 
such  occasions,  and  I  have  repeatedly  seen  these 
hard-working  industrious  fellows  go  deep  into 
their  pockets,  to  the  extent  even  of  half  a  week's 
pay,  for  the  use  for  a  few  hours  of  some  tawdry 
make-up  of  velvet  and  spangles  and  lace,  which 
reeked  with  promiscuous  wear.  And  the  outlay 
did  not  end  with  dress,  for  there  remained  tickets 
of  admission,  and  the  cost  of  at  least  two  suppers 
for  each  and  of  not  a  little  drinking.  It  was  ex- 
ceptional for  any  one  of  them  to  come  home 
drunk,  and  the  man  who  did  was  sure  of  a  course 
of  steady  bantering  for  days,  but  some  drinking 
was  the  rule  for  the  Saturday  nights  that  were 
given  to  masquerade.  When  a  play  would  fall 
in  place  in  the  order  of  amusement,  the  men  were 
sure  to  return  by  midnight,  and  there  was  always 
then  less  evidence  of  drink. 

All  forms  of  public  gayety  seemed  scrupu- 
lously confined  to  Saturday  nights  and  Sundays. 
The  men  could  not  have  been  more  punctual  at 
their  work,  and  the  habitual  week-day  evening 
was  the  far  from  exciting  one  in  Mrs.  Schulz's 
sitting-room,  which  I  have  described.  There  they 
regularly  gathered  after  supper,  and  smoked,  and 
romped  with  the  children,  and  played  cards,  and 
read.  I  was  usually  off  for  bed  by  eight  o'clock, 


A   HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN   A   FACTORY      187 

for  nothing  less  than  ten  hours  of  sleep  would  fit 
me  for  the  ten  hours  of  labor  in  the  factory,  and 
the  others  would  follow  an  hour  or  two  later. 

The  morning  brought  the  unwelcome  summons 
to  get  up  in  what  seemed  the  dead  of  night  and 
but  an  hour  or  two  after  the  time  of  going  to  bed. 
Cold  water  would  have  its  rousing  effect,  as,  also, 
a  breakfast  by  lamplight  with  an  anxious  eye  on 
the  clock,  and  then  a  rush  through  the  sharp  air 
of  the  morning  twilight  until  you  were  caught  in 
the  living  stream  which  poured  through  the  fac- 
tory-gate. Work  was  begun  on  the  minute,  and 
your  ear  caught  the  sharp  metallic  clink  of  the 
mowers  as  the  workmen  pushed  the  frames  down 
the  loading-platforms  to  the  cars.  Even  within 
the  brick  enclosures  and  in  the  stinging  cold  of 
the  winter  air,  there  arose  inevitably  with  the 
sound  the  association  of  meadows  fragrant  with 
the  perfume  of  new-mown  timothy  and  clover 
drying  in  the  hazy  warmth  of  a  long  summer 
afternoon. 

Within  the  buildings,  almost  in  a  moment, 
would  rise  the  turmoil  of  production.  You  heard 
the  deafening  uproar  of  far-reaching  machinery, 
as,  with  wheels  whirling  in  dizzy  motion  and  the 
straps  humming  in  their  flight,  it  beat  time  in 
deep,  low  throbs  to  the  remorseless  measures  of 
a  tireless  energy.  Cleaving  the  tumult  of  the 


188  THE   WORKERS 

sounding  air  you  heard  at  frequent  intervals  the 
buzz-saws  as  they  bit  hard  with  flying  teeth  into 
multiple  layers  of  wood,  rising  to  piercing  cres- 
cendo and  then  dying  away  in  a  sob.  There  was 
the  din  of  many  hammers,  and  over  the  wooden 
floors  and  along  the  run-ways,  and  through  the 
dark,  damp  passages  of  the  warehouses,  and  down 
the  deep  vistas  of  the  covered  platforms,  was  the 
almost  constant  rumble  of  hand-trucks  pushed  by 
men  and  boys. 

All  this  unceasingly  for  five  continuous  hours, 
which  always  seem  unending,  and  then  the 
abrupt  signal  for  twelve  o'clock,  and  the  sound 
of  the  machinery  running  down  while  the  men 
are  hastening  to  their  mid-day  meal.  About  the 
factory-gate  are  always  at  this  hour  groups  of 
women  and  young  children  who  have  brought  in 
pails  and  baskets  hot  dinners  for  their  men.  On 
brighter  days  you  can  see  long  lines  of  operatives 
sitting  along  the  curbs  or  with  their  backs  against 
the  high  board  fence,  basking  in  the  sunlight,  as 
they  eat  their  dinners  in  the  open  air  and  converse 
among  themselves  and  with  their  wives  or  chil- 
dren. 

Then  back  to  your  place  in  the  afternoon  while 
the  machinery  is  slowly  working  up  to  its  accus- 
tomed pace  and  the  men  about  you  reassembling 
to  take  up  again,  on  the  stroke  of  the  hour,  the 


A   HAND-TRUCKMAN   IN   A   FACTORY      189 

work  of  the  afternoon.  Five  more  hours  of  the 
thundering  rush  of  factory-labor  follow,  and  you 
leave  the  gate  at  night  almost  too  tired  to  walk. 
A  wash  is  first  in  your  recovery,  and  it  rests  you 
more  than  would  sleep.  Then  supper  brings  its 
deep  satisfaction  and  a  smoke  its  peaceful  con- 
tent, and  you  go  to  bed  better  off  by  a  day's  wages. 


CHAPTER  V 

AMONG  THE   REVOLUTIONARIES 

No.  —  SANGAMON  STREET,  CHICAGO,  ILL., 
February  27,  1892. 

AGAIN  I  am  in  the  army  of  the  unemployed, 
and  have  been  there  for  the  past  three  weeks  and 
more,  but  on  other  than  the  terms  of  my  first  ex- 
perience in  Chicago.  I  have  been  looking  for 
work  and  testing  many  phases  of  this  lurid  life  of 
enforced  idleness,  but  with  a  wide  difference  from 
the  original  venture  here.  My  savings  from 
wages  earned  in  the  factory  have  put  me  on  quite 
another  footing.  The  room  in  which  I  am  writ- 
ing has  been  an  adequate  shelter,  and  I  have  paid 
for  it  only  one  dollar  and  a  half  a  week.  Odd 
jobs  have  helped  me  often  in  the  matter  of  secur- 
ing food,  and,  when  these  failed,  I  have  had  my 
dwindling  store  of  savings  to  fall  back  upon;  and 
I  have  a  not  inconsiderable  knowledge  of  the 
cheap  eating-houses  of  the  town. 

All  through  my  time  of  service  in  the  factory, 
I  saved  scrupulously.  A  wage  of  nine  dollars  a 

week  held  out  a  hopeful  prospect  as  the  result  of 
190 


AMONG  THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         191 

seven  weeks  of  labor.  I  did  not  miss  even  a  frac- 
tion of  a  working  day,  and  so  the  total  of  my  earn- 
ings would  have  reached  sixty-three  dollars  but 
for  the  unfortunate  fact  that,  besides  Sundays, 
there  fell  two  holidays  within  the  limits  of  that 
period.  On  Christmas  and  New  Year's  Day  the 
factory  was  closed,  and  I  found,  to  my  surprise, 
that  holidays,  which  I  should  have  supposed  were 
joyously  welcome  to  all  the  world,  are  really  of 
very  doubtful  blessedness  to  the  vast  number  of 
workers  who  are  paid  for  the  actual  amount  ac- 
complished, and  by  the  detailed  reckoning  of 
time.  I  lost  three  dollars  in  hard  cash  by  Christ- 
mas Day  and  that  of  the  New  Year,  while  my 
living  expenses  were  uninterrupted;  and  three 
dollars  would  pay  for  two  weeks  of  comfortable 
housing  from  the  cruelties  of  this  inclement  life. 

It  was  three  weeks  before  I  could  get  appreci- 
ably ahead  in  the  matter  of  saving.  Nearly  all 
the  first  instalment  of  my  wages  was  already  due 
for  board,  and  a  bill  for  washing  cut  deep  into 
the  small  remainder.  A  pair  of  shoes  was  an  ab- 
solute necessity  at  the  end  of  the  next  week,  for 
I  was  going  about  almost  barefooted,  and  some 
other  articles  of  clothing  were  equally  requisite. 
And  so  my  wages  for  week  by  week  together  were 
already  mortgaged  to  nearly  the  last  penny  be- 
fore I  had  actually  earned  them.  But  at  last  the 


192  THE   WORKERS 

materials  of  a  fairly  respectable  appearance  had 
been  secured,  and  then,  out  of  the  wages  of  the 
last  four  weeks  of  factory  work,  I  managed,  by 
closest  economy,  to  save  seventeen  dollars  and 
a  half. 

Gradation  in  respectability  in  the  matter  of 
dress,  from  the  point  at  which  a  man  is  unmis- 
takably in  his  working-clothes  to  that  in  which 
he  readily  passes  as  a  workman  in  his  Sunday 
best,  has  furnished  the  means  of  some  range  in 
the  experiment  of  church-going.  From  the  first 
I  have  gone  regularly  to  church.  But  appearing 
in  the  garb  of  a  day-laborer  in  the  fashionable 
churches  of  a  great  city  is  far  removed  as  a  matter 
of  experience  from  attending  the  service  of  a  vil- 
lage meeting-house.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
the  latter  would  be  the  greater  ordeal  to  a  real 
workman.  Country  parishioners  turn  out  on 
Sundays  with  an  amazing  show  of  dress,  and  one 
of  their  own  number  in  flannel  shirt  and  labor- 
stained  clothing  would  be  oddly  conspicuous; 
and  he  would  feel  his  peculiarity  much  more,  I 
imagine,  than  if  he  found  himself  among  persons 
whom  he  did  not  know  on  equal  social  footing. 
For  me  the  case  was  different  and  was  wholly 
artificial,  but  in  going  to  church  in  the  country, 
dressed  in  working  clothes  which  had  been  care- 
fully protected  by  overalls,  and  mended,  and 


AMONG  THE  REVOLUTIONARIES         193 

brushed,  and  cleaned  to  the  utmost,  I  yet  could 
but  feel  how  intolerable  to  a  workingman  the 
actual  situation  would  have  been.  To  slip  early 
into  a  quiet  corner  of  the  village  church  which 
was  usually  free,  and  then  out  again  before  most 
of  the  congregation  had  well  started  for  the  door, 
was  a  widely  dissimilar  thing  from  regularly  at- 
tending service  with  your  neighbors. 

In  overalls  and  a  "  jumper,"  a  man  is  easily 
classified;  without  them,  however  plain  may  be 
the  stamp  upon  him  of  attempted  cleanliness,  it 
is  difficult  to  place  him  among  a  Sunday-dressed 
community,  whether  in  the  country  or  in  town, 
unless  he,  too,  is  evidently  in  Sunday  clothes.  It 
is  not,  in  its  general  application,  a  question  of 
fashion ;  the  cut  of  a  man's  garments  may  be  that 
of  ten  years  back,  or  may  be  foreign  to  any  fash- 
ion known,  but  his  clothing  must  not  bear  the 
marks  of  toil,  and  must  have  the  linen  accom- 
paniments which  render,  while  they  are  worn, 
all  manual  labor  difficult.  If  he  would  conform, 
a  man  must  never  worship  in  garments  in  which 
he  could  work. 

A  want  of  conformity  might  quite  possibly 
expose  him  to  aggressive  criticism  and  ridicule 
among  his  accustomed  fellows.  I  never  found  it 
so  myself  in  the  country,  where  I  always  went  to 

church  in  working  clothes  because  I  had  no 
13 


194  THE  WORKERS 

others,  for  never  once  was  I  made  to  feel  the  least 
embarrassment,  while  many  times  I  wondered  at 
the  gracious  courtesy  which  met  me.  But  I  was 
always  a  stranger,  and  had  never  to  face  com- 
panions of  long  standing.  And  so,  as  in  many 
phases  of  my  experiment,  the  unreality  of  my 
position  marred,  in  large  measure,  the  value  of 
the  result. 

In  Chicago,  however,  the  circumstances  were 
not  so  clearly  against  me,  and  they  served  to  give 
to  my  own  experience  something  of  a  normal 
character.  In  entering  a  church  door  on  Sunday 
mornings,  I  was  objectively  in  no  other  station 
than  that  of  any  workingman  who  may  have 
wished  to  worship  there.  The  treatment  which  I 
received  is,  therefore,  a  fair  gauge  of  the  recep- 
tion which  another  worker  might  expect. 

If  it  were  a  single  instance  I  should  not  men- 
tion it,  and  I  venture  to  offer  no  generalization,  al- 
though I  am  speaking  of  tests  which  covered 
many  Sundays  and  included  all  the  principal 
churches  of  the  town.  All  that  can  be  said,  I 
think,  is  that  the  uniformity  of  result  is  some 
evidence  of  what  a  like-conditioned  workingman 
might  count  upon  in  the  way  of  treatment  at  the 
hands  of  fashionable  churches. 

I  was  sure,  in  the  first  venture  or  two,  that  the 
circumstances  were  exceptional,  and  that  I  had 


AMONG   THE  REVOLUTIONARIES         195 

chanced  upon  churches  which,  although  most 
evidently  of  the  rich,  were  yet  watchful  for  every 
opportunity  of  welcoming  the  poor.  It  was  not 
until  I  had  made  the  rounds  of  many  churches  of 
many  denominations  that  I  realized  how  general 
and  how  sincere  among  them  is  the  spirit  of  hos- 
pitality to  the  working  poor. 

In  the  vestibules,  I  always  found  young  men 
who  acted  as  ushers,  and  who  were  charged  with 
the  duty  of  receiving  strangers.  Never  once  did 
I  fail  of  a  friendly  greeting.  With  every  test  I 
felt  increasingly  the  difficulties  of  the  situation 
for  these  young  men,  and  my  wonder  grew  at 
their  graceful  tactfulness.  A  touch  of  the  pa- 
tronizing in  their  tone  or  manner  would  have 
changed  the  welcome  to  an  insult,  and  any 
marked  effusiveness  of  cordiality  would  have 
robbed  it  as  effectually  of  all  virtue.  It  was  the 
golden  mean  of  a  man's  friendly  recognition  of 
his  fellow-man,  with  no  regard  for  difference  in 
social  standing,  which  was  the  course  so  success- 
fully followed  by  these  young  ushers. 

I  had  always  to  avoid  a  more  desirable  seat  by 
particularly  asking  for  one  far  to  the  rear.  And 
in  the  pews  there  was  no  withdrawing  of  skirts, 
nor  were  there  other  signs  of  objection  to  me  as 
a  fellow-worshipper.  On  the  contrary,  a  hymnal, 
or  a  prayer-book  would  be  promptly  offered,  and 


196  THE  WORKERS 

sometimes  shared;  and,  at  the  service-end,  a  cor- 
dial invitation  to  come  again  would  often  follow 
me  from  the  pew-door,  although  frequently  I  no- 
ticed that  I  was  conspicuously  lonely  as  a  repre- 
sentative of  the  poor. 

How  natural  it  was  and  how  inevitable  that 
the  poor  should  not  be  there  shone  clear  as  day 
the  moment  that  I  regarded  the  matter  from  the 
subjective  attitude  of  a  genuine  worker. 

Prom  their  status  as  citizens  in  a  free  land, 
American  workingmen  have  acquired,  together 
with  the  sense  of  individual  freedom,  the  quality, 
in  very  marked  degree,  of  self-respect.  It  ex- 
hibits itself  sometimes  in  highly  contradictory 
fashion,  for  it  is  sensitive  and  jealous  in  the  mak- 
ing; but  self-respect  is  none  the  less  a  fundamen- 
tal characteristic. 

Besides  Dennis  and  three  others,  who  were 
Roman  Catholics,  the  men  at  Mrs.  Schuk's  board- 
ing-house did  not  go  to  church.  In  talking  with 
them  I  discovered  that  all  had  been  more  or  less 
in  the  habit  of  church-going  in  their  country 
homes,  but  that  the  habit  had  dropped  completely 
from  them  upon  coming  to  live  in  town.  The 
case  was  perfectly  apparent.  The  mere  sugges- 
tion of  a  mission  church  was  insulting  to  them, 
and,  from  the  new  idea  of  churches  for  the  rich, 
they  had  learned  their  first  lesson  in  class  dis- 


NEVER   ONCE   DID   I    FAIL   OF   A    FRIENDLY    GREETING. 


AMONG  THE  REVOLUTIONARIES         197 

tinctions.  Every  feature  of  such  a  church,  its 
richly  dressed  occupants  in  their  high-priced 
pews,  and  the  general  atmosphere  of  merely  so- 
cial superiority,  would  have  inflicted  upon  these 
men,  in  spite  of  a  cordial  welcome,  as  deep  a 
wound  to  their  self-respect  as  they  would  have 
felt  in  being  decoyed  to  a  formal  reception  in  a 
lady's  drawing-room.  To  them,  the  latter  func- 
tion could  not  be  more  obviously  intended  for  an- 
other class  than  theirs. 

One  night,  before  I  left  the  factory,  Albert 
spoke  his  mind  to  me  on  the  subject  with  much 
freedom.  Several  times  I  had  asked  him  to 
come  with  me  to  church,  and  on  this  particular 
Saturday  evening  I  spoke  of  a  preacher  whom  I 
hoped  to  hear  in  the  morning,  and  who,  I  urged, 
would  surely  interest  him. 

"  Look  here,  John,"  he  said,  finally,  "  it's  all 
right  you  asking  me  to  go  to  church,  but  I  ain't 
going.  I  used  to  go  regular  when  I  lived  to  home, 
although  I  ain't  no  church-member.  It  was  dif- 
ferent out  there,  for  most  everybody  went  and 
chipped  in  what  they  could,  and  everybody  sat 
where  they  liked,  and  it  wasn't  one  man's  church 
more  than  another's.  You  go  to  church  if  you 
like.  That's  your  own  business.  But  I  ain't 
going  to  no  one-horse  mission  chapel  that  the  rich 
has  put  up  so  they  won't  be  bothered  with  the 


198  THE   WORKERS 

poor  in  their  own  churches.  You  say  they  treat 
you  well  when  you  go  to  church  on  Michigan 
Avenue.  I  don't  doubt  it.  What  reason  would 
they  have  for  not  treating  you  well  ?  But,  all  the 
the  same,  they  take  you  in  for  charity,  for  you 
couldn't  pay  for  a  seat  in  one  of  them  churches. 
No,  sir,  the  rich  folks  build  their  churches  for 
themselves,  and  they  keep  them  up  for  them- 
selves, and  I  ain't  never  going  to  interfere  with 
that  arrangement.  I  don't  mind  going  to  the 
meetings  of  the  Association  once  in  awhile,  for 
there's  fellows  of  your  own  kind  there,  and  you 
hear  some  good  speaking  and  singing.  I  ain't 
got  much  use  even  for  that,  for  it's  only  a  side- 
show that's  run  mostly  by  the  rich,  but  I  ain't 
got  no  use  at  all  for  your  churches." 

Nevertheless,  on  the  whole,  I  was  sorry  the 
next  morning  that  Albert  was  not  with  me. 
There  were  moments  when  I  did  not  regret  it, 
but  the  sermon,  for  all  its  strange  setting,  was  one 
which  could  scarcely  have  failed  to  impress  him. 

After  a  seven  o'clock  breakfast,  which  seemed 
luxuriously  late,  and  which  Dennis  and  I  shared 
alone  on  Sunday  mornings,  I  set  out  as  usual  for 
the  South  Side.  It  was  five  miles  to  my  destina- 
tion in  that  section  of  the  city,  and  I  always 
walked  both  ways,  for  sometimes  I  had  not  the 
fare,  and,  in  any  case,  ten  cents  saved  was  no 


AMONG  THE  REVOLUTIONARIES         199 

mean   item  in   a   careful   account   of   possible 
economy. 

The  Sundays  of  my  term  of  service  in  the  fac- 
tory were,  for  the  most  part,  splendid  winter  days, 
and  this  was  of  the  best.  No  snow  lay  on  the 
ground,  no  winter  wind  stirred  the  dust  in  the 
long,  quiet  streets,  and  clear  from  out  the  cloud- 
less sky  came  the  glowing  rays  of  the  sun,  tem- 
pering the  cold  air  to  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  re- 
viving warmth  wherein  you  catch  your  breath 
with  wonder,  so  charged  is  it  with  the  mystery 
of  the  coming  spring.  "Walking,  on  such  a  day, 
is  of  the  essence  of  delight.  Some  measure  of 
bodily  exercise  is  needed  to  keep  one  warm,  and 
this  forth-faring  on  a  holiday,  free  from  the  ne- 
cessity of  labor,  which  begins  almost  with  the 
dawn  of  consciousness  after  sleep  and  ends  only  as 
the  night  of  sleep  closes  down  upon  one,  is  a  form 
of  pleasure  which  life  does  not  often  match. 

The  spell  of  it  bore  me  company  through  the 
factory  region,  and  where  there  opened  to  my 
view  mile  after  mile  of  lumber-yards,  with  un- 
sightly piles  of  seasoning  timber  stretching  away 
to  where  the  vessels  lie  in  the  canals  which  are 
fed  from  the  river,  and  there  rise  the  gaunt  bulks 
of  towering  elevators,  and  the  tall  chimneys  that 
everywhere  send  forth  their  ceaseless  volumes  of 
black  smoke.  All  this  was  eloquent  of  work,  and 


200  THE   WORKERS 

wages,  and  the  means  of  decent  living,  and  it 
therefore  had  a  beauty  which  will  not  be  denied 
to  it  by  one  who  knows  something  of  the  misery 
of  the  unemployed.  Even  the  grotesque  ugliness 
of  the  long  lines  of  buildings,  as  I  entered  the 
closely  built-up  sections  of  the  town,  could  not 
rob  me  of  the  comforting  sense  of  shelter  and 
much  legitimate  business  among  the  well-paid 
working  poor. 

But,  before  crossing  thence  to  the  South  Side, 
there  remains  a  belt  through  which  even  the 
stanchest  optimism  on  its  way  to  church  on  a 
bright  Sunday  morning  could  scarcely  pass  with- 
out misgivings.  A  varying  foreign  population, 
chiefly  from  southern  and  eastern  Europe,  thick- 
ens here  to  a  point  of  incredible  crowding,  and 
sweat-shops  abound,  and  cheap  bakeries,  and  there 
is  a  marked  increase  in  the  number  of  pawn-shops 
and  saloons. 

The  crowds  in  the  streets  had  been  in  Sunday 
dress  thus  far  for  the  most  part,  and  were  evi- 
dently on  the  way  to  mass  or  just  returning. 
Many  children  were  among  them,  uniformly  well- 
booted  and  dressed,  and  here  and  there  appeared 
the  white  veil  and  crowning  flowers  of  a  first 
communion. 

There  was  no  sharp  transition  to  a  region  which 
knows  no  Sunday,  for  everywhere  were  the  out- 


AMONG  THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         201 

ward  symbols  of  the  day  in  closed  shops,  and 
streets  free  from  the  noise  of  traffic,  and  the  pres- 
ence of  holiday  garments;  and  yet  more  obvious 
on  every  hand  became  now  the  evidences  of  a 
poverty  which  finds  no  day  of  rest.  The  unem- 
ployed, in  the  uniform  of  rags,  were  loafing  on  the 
streets — the  long,  relentless  waiting  which  is  an 
honest  workman's  torment  until  he  finds  em- 
ployment, or  loses  hope  and  self-respect,  when 
it  becomes  his  sure  destruction.  Children  who 
have  scant  knowledge  of  clean  water  or  clean 
clothes  were  playing  in  the  unclean  streets,  or 
emerging  from  the  "  family  entrances  "  of  sa- 
loons with  pitchers  or  tin-pails  of  beer,  destined 
for  rooms  swarming  with  workers  whose  labor 
never  ceases,  except  for  a  few  hours  each  night, 
unless  there  comes  the  calamity  of  no  work  at 
even  a  bare-living  rate. 

It  was  the  age-old  picture  of  the  lot  of  the 
very  poor,  which  alters  not  with  the  varying  fort- 
une of  the  State.  "  The  old  order  changeth, 
yielding  place  to  new,"  one  epoch  of  society 
merges  into  another,  and  the  lives  of  men  are 
lived  on  other  planes;  but  there  is  a  constant 
quantity  in  it  all  at  the  point  where  the  pressure 
upon  the  limits  of  subsistence  is  the  strongest, 
and  the  weakest,  driven  to  the  wall,  live  from 
hand  to  mouth  in  squalid  wretchedness. 


202  THE  WORKERS 

How  familiar  to  our  day  has  the  picture  come 
to  be  of  children  who  breathe  moral  death  with 
every  breath  they  draw,  and  grow  up  to  certain 
crime  and  shamelessness  from  out  the  haggard 
struggle  for  daily  bread  in  sordid  attics  where 
disease  is  born  in  reeking  filth  and  in  warrens  of 
beastly  incest !  Familiarity  with  it  breeds  no  con- 
tempt, but  rather  a  wondering  recognition  of  the 
touch  of  better  nature  which  reveals  itself — the 
shouts  of  true  delight  from  children  hard  at  play; 
their  rapt  absorption  in  the  game,  an  ecstasy  in 
which  all  the  hidden  beauty  of  their  faces  is  dis- 
closed; the  loving  tending  of  a  plant  that  grows 
in  the  fetid  air  of  a  working-chamber ;  and,  more 
than  all,  the  unfailing  miracle  of  ministry, 
wherein  the  poor,  out  of  cramping  penury,  re- 
lieve the  grimmer  needs  of  yet  poorer  brethren. 

Once  through  the  belt,  and  over  a  narrow  river 
which  flows  black  with  the  noisome  sewage  of  the 
city,  and  past  the  region  of  unceasing  railway 
traffic,  and  through  the  chilling  gloom  of  streets 
which  are  like  sunless  caverns  between  sheer  walls 
of  stone,  almost  a  single  step  in  an  eastward  walk 
brought  to  sudden  view  the  revelation  of  new 
order.  A  long,  wide  avenue,  bathed  in  winter 
sunlight,  lay  radiant  from  polished  windows  and 
the  garnished  pavements  of  all  its  length. 
Glimpses  were  had  of  an  inland  sea  which  re- 


AMONG  THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         203 

Elected,  as  from  clearest  crystal,  the  infinite  seren- 
ity of  unclouded  skies.  Down  the  far  extent  of 
the  thoroughfare,  blending  into  indistinguishable 
unity  in  distant,  gleaming  haze,  were  homes 
where,  in  quiet  and  comfort,  some  in  high  refine- 
ment and  some  in  barbaric  splendor,  live  the 
strong  of  their  generation,  working  out  life's  fate- 
ful ends. 

It  was  down  this  avenue  that  I  passed  on  the 
way  to  church.  An  outward  calm,  as  of  perfect 
peace,  possessed  it.  There  was  no  Hint  of  hunger 
there,  nor  of  the  cruel  need  which  eats  into  the 
living  souls  of  men  until  it  devours  them  or  leaves 
them  maimed  and  stunted  of  their  rightful 
growth.  Plethora  here  took  the  place  of  want. 
Then  quickly  came  the  sense  of  excess,  with  its 
end  in  sad  satiety,  and  hard  upon  the  sight  of 
lavish  luxury  followed  the  impression  of  a  world 
of  men  seeking  at  any  cost  to  hedge  themselves 
with  unstinted  plenty  from  all  sight  and  knowl- 
edge of  their  kindred  who  know  but  little  relief 
from  pangs  of  plague  and  famine. 

Among  the  first  to  enter  it,  I  walked  up  the 
steps  of  a  large  stone  church  and  into  an  inviting 
vestibule.  Several  young  men  were  grouped  in 
conversation  between  the  inner  doors,  and  the  one 
who  first  marked  my  entrance  stepped  out  at  once 
to  meet  me.  A  little  painfully  regardful  of  his 


204  THE   WORKERS 

dress,  he  yet  was  frank  and  cordial,  and  the  ease 
with  which  he  greeted  me  could  not  have  become 
him  better  had  he  spent  his  life  in  leading  work- 
ingmen  up  the  aisles  of  rich  churches. 

"  I  have  a  seat  well  up  on  this  side,  where  you 
can  hear  perfectly,"  he  suggested,  looking  me  full 
in  the  eyes,  as  we  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  door. 
"  May  I  show  you  to  that?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  sit  here  if  I  may,"  I  said, 
and  I  pointed  to  the  corner  of  the  first  seat  from 
the  wall. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  answered,  "  but  that  seat  is 
reserved  for  an  old  gentleman  who  has  occupied 
it  for  years,  and  who  always  prefers  to  sit  there. 
Would  you  mind  taking  the  seat  just  in  front  of 
it?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  said.  "  That  will  suit  me 
quite  as  well,"  and  I  sat  myself  down  in  the  place 
in  question. 

Not  half  a  dozen  persons  were  in  the  building, 
and  its  restful  quiet  was  unbroken  even  by  the 
prelude  from  the  organ.  Two  ladies  in  deep 
mourning  entered  now,  in  the  company  of  the 
church  treasurer.  It  appeared,  from  their  con- 
versation, that  they  had  met  him  by  appoint- 
ment; and,  although  they  were  speaking  in  low 
tones,  yet  they  stood  so  near  me  that  I  could  not 
help  overhearing  what  they  said. 


AMONG  THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         205 

The  point  in  discussion  among  them  related  to 
a  pew,  and  the  treasurer  politely  pointed  out  a 
small  one  not  far  from  where  I  sat,  which  was  at 
their  service  for  two  hundred  dollars  a  year,  and 
also  two  sittings  farther  to  the  front,  which  they 
might  have  on  the  same  terms.  There  was  much 
considering  of  the  pros  and  cons  of  this  alterna- 
tive, and,  incidentally,  the  treasurer  indicated  the 
range  of  prices  in  the  pews,  from  two  hundred 
dollars  near  the  door  to  sixteen  hundred  where 
seats  were  most  in  demand. 

In  growing  numbers  the  congregation  was  as- 
sembling, and  above  the  gentle  breathing  of  the 
organ,  which  began  to  spread  in  soothing  waves 
of  prayerful  music  through  the  church,  rose  the 
soft  rustle  of  rich  dress,  and  the  air,  glowing 
with  deep  colors  from  stained  glass,  took  on  a 
subtle  perfume. 

"When  the  pews  were  dense  with  worshippers, 
scarcely  a  vacant  seat  remaining,  and  my  closest 
watchfulness  had  failed  to  note  the  presence  of 
a  single  other  person  of  my  class,  there  broke 
faintly  on  the  waiting  company  the  clear,  up- 
lifting sweetness  of  a  rare  contralto  voice. 
Vague  and  lightly  stirring  at  the  first,  as  when 
some  deeply  buried  feeling,  recalled  to  life,  gives 
utterance  to  new  being  in  "  the  language  of  a 
cry,"  it  rose  to  ever  fuller  power,  unfaltering  and 


20B  THE   WORKERS 

pure  in  every  tone,  until  it  smote  with  the  touch 
of  truth  each  silent  chord  of  life  and  waked  them 
all  to  perfect  harmony,  wherein  they  sing  the 
mystic  unity  of  things,  where  the  senses  mix  and 
whence  they  radiate,  and  where, 

.     .     .    in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 
Our  passions  clasp  a  secret  joy. 

I  was  not  present,  however,  merely  as  a  wor- 
ahipper,  but  also  as  a  member  of  my  chosen  order. 
I  tried  to  see  with  their  eyes,  and  then  to  think 
their  thoughts  and  feel  their  emotions.  When  I 
held  myself  honestly  to  this  task,  with  the  aid  of 
what  I  had  learned  directly  from  the  men  and 
caught  of  their  ways  of  thinking,  it  was  another 
revulsion  of  feeling  which  set  in. 

I  thought  of  my  nine  dollars  a  week,  and  of  the 
meagre  pittance  which  resulted  from  utmost  care 
in  saving,  even  when  my  own  support  was  the 
only  claim  upon  me,  and  how  far  beyond  my 
reach  was  all  possibility  of  a  seat  in  the  pews 
which  were  held  for  barter.  The  image  of  Mrs. 
Schulz  rose  up  to  me,  worn,  and  wan,  and  almost 
ill,  yet  always  cheerful,  and  I  remembered  the 
patient,  unflinching  courage  with  which  she  faced 
the  obligations  of  her  life,  and  the  heart-breaking 
economies  by  which  she  must  meet  many  of  its 
duties.  On  that  very  day,  the  two  older  children 


AMONG  THE  REVOLUTIONARIES         207 

had  gone  at  different  hours  to  church,  because 
there  was  but  one  pair  of  shoes  and  stockings  be- 
tween them,  and  Mrs.  Schulz  herself  went  out  to 
mass,  through  the  tingling  cold  of  the  early  morn- 
ing, in  clothing  which  would  have  been  light  for 
summer. 

While  here,  on  every  hand,  was  dress  whose 
cost,  as  indicating  not  warmth  and  comfort  but 
mere  conformity  to  changing  fashion,  represent- 
ed, in  scores  of  cases,  more  of  annual  individual 
expenditure  than  the  whole  net  income  of  many 
a  workman's  family.  And  even  more  poignant 
to  a  mind  made  sensitive  by  this  train  of  thought 
was  the  impression  which  weighed  upon  it  of  a 
company  well-fed  to  a  degree  of  comfort  beyond 
the  sense  of  sympathy  with  hunger  that  rarely 
learns  the  meaning  of  enough.  The  mere  sugges- 
tion of  a  breakfast  of  rich  food  in  wide  variety, 
and  served  often  at  great  cost  in  almost  wasteful 
plenty,  to  be  followed  soon  after  the  hour  of  wor- 
ship by  another  meal  yet  more  varied,  and  abun- 
dant, and  rich,  seemed  the  very  pitch  of  heartless 
mockery,  in  the  full  presence  almost  of  hundreds 
of  men  and  women  to  whom  bare  day's  bread  is 
an  agony  of  anxious  seeking,  and  of  multitudes 
of  little  children  to  whom,  not  nourishing  food 
alone  but  even  food  enough  to  stay  the  pangs  of 
hunger,  is  a  luxury. 


208  THE   WORKERS 

These  familiar  feelings,  roused,  as  always,  by 
the  common  contrasts  of  life,  which  one  follows 
in  close  study  through  the  bewildering  complexi- 
ties of  casual  relations,  were  dominant,  from  the 
new  point  of  view,  as  the  outcome  of  patent  facts. 
Superficial  and  undiscriminating,  and  yet  most 
real  and  living,  is  the  thought  of  the  actual  work- 
man, as  his  mind  responds  to  the  obvious  leading 
of  the  things  he  sees.  I  was  glad  at  this  point 
that  Albert  was  not  with  me.  A  few  minutes 
later  I  deeply  regretted  his  absence. 

The  minister  had  begun  his  sermon.  I  scarce- 
ly heard  the  opening  sentences,  so  oppressed 
was  my  mind  with  the  workman's  sense  of  the 
ruthless  Philistinism  of  this  phase  of  modern 
Christianity.  It  was  the  preacher's  tone  which 
first  attracted  me.  There  was  quiet  in  it  and  a 
great  reserve,  and  he  spoke  as  a  pastor  who  holds 
earnest  conversation  with  his  flock.  I  was  all 
attention  in  a  moment,  and  I  saw  that  I  listened  to 
a  man  who  knew  his  fellow-men,  and  whose  words 
made  strong  appeal  to  their  intelligence. 

It  was  as  though  he  spoke  from  a  heart  well- 
nigh  broken  with  personal  grief,  but  chastened 
to  new  love  and  truth,  and  tenderness,  by  the 
sorrow  which  it  had  borne. 

He  was  speaking  of  the  needs  of  men,  and 
through  his  thoughts  there  breathed  a  knowledge 


AMONG  THE  EEVOLUTIONAEIES         209 

of  the  Weltschmerz  of  to-day,  and  deep  sympathy 
with  it.  There  was  no  weak  ignoring  of  the  dif- 
ficulties of  honest  doubt,  and  no  false  claims  for 
the  basis  of  belief;  and,  when  he  spoke  of  the  aw- 
ful suffering  of  our  time,  his  words  were  true  to 
the  high  dignity  of  man  through  the  infinite  con- 
sequences of  free  choice  in  his  life  upon  the  earth. 
His  appeal  was  no  emotional  blending  of  the  false 
and  true,  wherewith  to  blind  men's  eyes  to  the 
eternal  verities,  and  to  cause  to  rest  lightly  upon 
comfortable  consciences  the  sense  of  personal  re- 
sponsibility for  one's  fellows,  but  rather  the  sure 
claim  of  clear  conviction  which  comes  from  out 
the  facts  of  daily  life  seen  in  the  light  of  their 
true  meaning. 

The  effect  upon  his  hearers  was  unmistakable. 
I  was  unaware  of  it  for  a  time,  so  engrossed  was  I 
in  the  speaker's  words,  and  in  the  strongly  human 
personality  of  the  man,  but  by  degrees  I  awoke 
to  the  fact  that  all  about  me  were  listeners  as 
eagerly  intent  as  I.  The  sense  of  hardened,  pam- 
pered, Philistinism  gave  way  before  the  over- 
whelming consciousness  of  a  sympathetic  unity 
of  thought  and  feeling.  Indifferent  to  the  vital 
needs  of  the  world  and  to  the  pressing  problems 
of  its  life?  No  emotion  could  have  been  farther 
from  these  men  and  women,  the  intensity  of 

whose  interest  could  be  felt  in  almost  an  agony  of 
14 


210  THE  WORKERS 

breathless  attention  to  the  sober  truthfulness  of 
the  minister.  The  very  stillness  was  charged 
with  mute  appeal  for  guidance  from  hearts  wrung 
with  the  hurt  of  the  world  and  pleading  for  some 
useful  outlet  to  the  tide  of  generous  feeling.  It 
was  as  though  distress  had  ceased  to  be  for  them 
the  visible  sufferings  of  the  poor,  and  had  grown, 
through  the  deepening  sense  of  brotherhood,  into 
an  anguish  of  their  own,  which  must  find  healing 
in  forms  of  effective  helpfulness.  Very  clearly 
dawned  the  conviction  that,  if  one  could  but 
point  out  to  the  members  of  this  waiting  com- 
pany some  "  way,"  "  something  to  do,"  which 
would  square  well  with  their  practical  business 
sense  of  things,  instant  and  unmeasured  would  be 
their  response  for  the  furthering  of  an  end  which 
would  work  them  such  glad  relief ! 

From  the  church  my  destination  was  the  meet- 
ing of  the  Socialists.  But  not  immediately,  for  I 
stopped  on  the  way  at  the  well-known  haunt  in 
Madison  Street  for  the  usual  Sunday  dinner. 

By  this  time  I  had  attended  several  of  the  So- 
cialists' meetings,  and  had  come  to  know  person- 
ally a  number  of  the  members  of  the  order,  and  I 
was  not  surprised,  upon  taking  a  seat  in  the  res- 
taurant, to  catch  sight  of  three  Socialists  who 
were  nodding  pleasantly  to  me  from  a  neighbor- 
ing table.  One  was  the  broad-minded  Pedler, 


AMONG  THE  REVOLUTIONARIES         211 

whose  good  impression  made  in  the  first  speech  of 
his  which  I  had  heard  was  heightened  by  all  my 
later  knowledge  of  him.  Another  I  had  learned 
to  know  as  a  near  approach  to  my  original  pre- 
conception of  a  revolutionary.  He  was  a  Com- 
munistic Anarchist,  and  just  what  peculiar  vari- 
ation of  individual  belief  it  was  which  led  him  to 
ally  himself  with  the  Socialists  I  could  never 
make  clearly  out. 

It  puzzled  me  not  a  little;  for,  by  this  time  I 
had  thoroughly  in  mind  the  fundamental  fact 
that  Socialism  and  Anarchy,  as  two  schools  of  so- 
cial doctrine,  are  at  the  very  poles  of  hostile  op- 
position to  each  other.  And,  if  I  may  judge  from, 
the  little  that  I  have  seen  and  heard  between, 
them,  the  vituperative  heat  of  their  controversies 
is  equalled  only  by  the  warmth  and  malignancy 
which  has  marked  the  history  of  theological 
debate. 

I  soon  learned  that  Socialist  and  Anarchist  are 
not  interchangeable  terms,  to  be  used  with  light 
indifference  in  describing  the  general  advocate  of 
revolution  against  established  order.  Indeed,  to 
my  great  surprise,  I  found  that  a  policy  of  active, 
aggressive  revolution  among  these  men  had  al- 
most no  adherents.  Certainly  none  among  the 
Socialists,  for  they  repudiated  the  bare  suggestion 
of  violence  as  being  wholly  inadequate  and  ab- 


212  THE  WORKERS 

surd,  and  pinned  their  faith  instead  to  what  they 
called  the  "  natural  processes  of  evolution." 
These,  to  their  belief,  would,  in  any  case,  work 
out  the  appointed  ends  with  men,  but  their  oper- 
ation could  be  stimulated  by  education,  they  said, 
and  helped  on  by  organized  effort  toward  the 
achievement  of  manifest  destiny  in  the  highly 
centralized  and  perfected  order  which  is  to  result 
from  the  common  ownership  and  administration 
by  all  the  people  of  all  land  and  capital  used  in 
production  and  distribution,  for  the  common  good 
of  all. 

And  even  among  the  Anarchists  the  upholders 
of  a  policy  of  bloody  revolt  against  social  order 
were  rare.  Most  of  those  whom  I  came  to  know 
were  distinctly  of  a  metaphysical  turn  of  mind. 
It  was  easy  to  trace  their  intellectual  kinship  with 
the  Physiocrats  of  the  last  century,  in  their  im- 
plicit confidence  in  the  universal  efficacy  of 
laissez  faire.  Their  views,  reduced  to  simplest 
terms,  seemed  to  take  the  form  of  the  epigram — 
that  "  the  cure  for  the  evils  of  freedom  is  more 
freedom."  The  removal  of  all  artificial  restraint 
in  the  form  of  man-made  laws  would  result 
eventually,  to  their  thinking,  in  a  society  as  nat- 
ural and  as  wholesome  as  is  all  physical  order, 
which  is  the  exact  resultant  of  the  free  play  of 
natural  law. 


AMONG  THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         213 

It  was  the  Socialist's  conception  of  a  highly 
centralized  administration  which  drove  the  An- 
archist into  a  frenzy  of  vehement  antagonism. 
And  it  was  the  Anarchist's  laissez  faire  ideal 
which  roused  the  latent  fighting-spirit  of  the  So- 
cialist. The  Anarchist  would  maintain  with 
stout  conviction  that  centralized  administration 
is  already  the  core  of  the  malady  of  the  world, 
and  that  our  need  is  for  freedom  in  the  absence 
of  artificial  limitations  wherein  natural  forces  can 
work  their  rightful  ends.  And  the  Socialist 
would  retort,  with  rising  anger,  that  it  is  from 
anarchy — the  absence  of  wisely  regulated  sys- 
tem— that  the  world  even  now  suffers  most,  and 
that  the  hope  of  men  lies  in  the  orderly  manage- 
ment of  their  own  affairs  in  the  interests  of  all, 
and  in  the  light  of  the  revelations  of  science. 
They  were  heartily  at  one  in  their  dislike  for  what 
they  were  fond  of  calling  the  present  "  bourgeois 
society,"  and  for  the  existing  rights  of  private 
property,  which  they  regarded  as  its  chiefest  bul- 
wark, but  they  parted  company  at  once,  and  with 
sharp  recriminations,  on  the  grounds  of  their  dis- 
like, and  of  their  purposes  and  hopes  for  a  re- 
generated state  of  things. 

Such  Anarchists  were  of  the  "Individualistic" 
type.  Not  all  of  those  I  met  were  so  philosophi- 
cal, however.  The  Communistic  one,  who  was 


214  THE  WORKERS 

nodding  at  me  in  a  friendly  manner  from  a  near 
table,  notably  was  not.  Very  much  the  reverse. 
He  was  for  open  revolution  to  the  death,  and  he 
made  no  secret  of  it.  He  had  little  patience  for 
the  slow  pace  of  evolution  believed  in  by  the  So- 
cialists, but  he  had  less,  apparently,  for  the 
laissez  faire  conception  of  his  brother  Anar- 
chists. At  all  events,  I  found  him  most  com- 
monly in  the  meetings  of  the  former  sect,  where 
his  revolutionary  views  were  frowned  down,  but 
his  invectives  against  society  were  tolerated  in  a 
spirit  of  free  speech,  and  as  being  warranted  by 
the  evils  of  the  existing  state. 

He  was  a  German,  of  tall,  muscular  frame, 
erect,  square-shouldered,  well-poised,  as  a  result 
of  long  service,  most  bitterly  against  his  will,  in 
the  Prussian  Army,  and  he  hated  kings  and  po- 
tentates and  all  governmental  authority,  with  a 
burning  hatred.  His  was  the  broad-featured  like- 
ness of  his  race,  and  his  stiff,  fair  hair  was  brushed 
back  in  straight  lines  from  a  well-shaped  fore- 
head, while  his  beard,  brown  and  streaked  with 
white,  bristled  from  his  lower  face  like  the  bayo- 
nets of  a  square  in  full  formation.  He  was  a 
mechanic  by  trade,  and  a  good  one,  as  I  had 
happened  to  learn. 

The  last  of  the  three,  like  the  Pedler,  was  a 
Socialist,  but  was  very  unlike  his  two  companions 


AMONG  THE   KEVOLUTIONAKIES         215 

as  a  man.  My  acquaintance  among  the  Socialists 
had  not  gone  far  before  I  began  to  observe  that 
I  was  meeting  men  who,  whatever  their  mental 
vagaries,  were  craftsmen  of  no  mean  order.  They 
were  machinists  and  skilled  workmen  mostly,  and 
some  were  workers  in  sweat-shops.  All  of  them 
had  known  the  full  stress  of  the  struggle  for 
bread,  but  they  were  decidedly  not  the  ineffi- 
cients  of  their  class,  having  fought  their  way  to 
positions  of  some  advantage  in  the  general  fight. 
Here,  however,  was  an  exception  in  this  third 
"  comrade,"  and  I  marvelled  at  the  rarity  of  his 
type.  Incompetence  was  stamped  on  every  feat- 
ure. His  long,  lank,  flabby  figure,  with  its  dis- 
jointed movements,  suggested  no  virility.  The 
hair  grew  thin  and  blonde  from  his  head  and  from 
his  colorless  face,  and  his  large,  pale-blue  eyes 
flitted  in  their  movements,  as  though  there  were 
behind  them  not  intelligence  enough  to  hold  them 
in  fixed  attention.  The  man's  emotions  were 
boundless.  He  had,  moreover,  a  gift  of  utterance, 
and,  when  he  spoke  in  meeting,  it  was  sheer  feel- 
ing that  expressed  itself  in  words  which  were 
marvellously  void  of  any  sane  concatenation.  It 
was  a  psychological  phenomenon,  this  public 
speech  of  his.  We  had  premonitory  warnings  of 
it,  for  we  could  see  him  writhing  in  his  seat  when 
his  emotions  were  aroused,  and  starting  ner- 


216  THE   WORKERS 

vously  until  he  had  gained  the  floor,  when  a  half- 
suppressed,  general  groan  would  greet  the  tor- 
rent of  his  sentences,  which  flowed  directly  from 
chaotic  feeling  which  had  never  reached  his 
mind. 

We  four  left  the  restaurant  together,  and 
walked  on  to  Waverley  Hall.  I  fell  in  with  the 
Pedler,  and  from  him  I  was  glad  to  learn  that  the 
Poet  was  to  read  that  afternoon  his  long-deferred 
paper  on  the  "  Opening  of  the  Exposition 
Grounds  on  Sunday." 

It  was  a  little  before  the  appointed  hour  when 
we  reached  the  hall,  but  already  there  was  prom- 
ise of  an  uncommon  meeting.  The  audience  was 
larger  than  usual,  the  benches  on  both  sides  of  the 
central  aisle  being  well  filled  nearly  to  the  door. 
The  Pedler  and  I  had  some  difficulty  in  finding 
seats  near  the  front.  More  than  ever  marked  was 
the  atmosphere  of  keen  alertness,  which,  from 
the  first,  had  so  attracted  me  in  the  gatherings  of 
the  Socialists.  They  might  be  futile,  but  their 
meetings  were  never  dull.  And,  while  they 
could  not  have  been  more  orderly,  they  might 
easily  have  proved  far  less  engaging  than  they 
were,  had  a  saving  sense  of  humor  been  more 
conspicuously  a  characteristic  of  the  members. 

There  was  a  sense  of  pleasurable  excitement  in 
sinking  back  into  my  seat,  whence,  by  turning  a 


AMONG  THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         217 

little  to  the  right,  I  could  command  the  hall.  The 
afternoon  sun  was  streaming  through  the  two 
large  windows  in  the  south  end.  The  heavy  dra- 
peries, looped  up  to  admit  the  light,  were  in  per- 
fect keeping  with  the  carpet  on  the  dai's  and  the 
pulpit  chairs  upholstered  with  plush,  on  one 
of  which  sat  the  Leader,  behind  a  reading-desk. 
There  were  other  paraphernalia  of  the  Masonic 
lodge  which  habitually  held  its  meetings  there, 
and  among  the  life-sized  portraits  on  the  walls 
was  one  of  Washington  in  the  full  regalia  of  a 
Mason.  At  small  wooden  tables,  resting  on  the 
floor  at  the  Leader's  right,  sat  a  few  young  re- 
porters, sharpening  their  pencils  in  preparation 
for  any  points  which  could  be  turned  to  good  ac- 
count as  "  copy." 

To  the  pleasure  of  excited  interest  was  added 
the  ease  of  some  familiarity,  for,  besides  the 
heads  of  meeting,  I  recognized  among  the  gather- 
ing company  the  faces  of  habitues.  In  a  seat 
across  the  aisle  the  Poet  sat  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion with  the  Citizeness,  holding  fast  a  roll  of 
manuscript  in  both  hands.  And  at  the  end  of 
the  bench  behind  them  was  a  young  man  who  in- 
terested me  far  more  than  any  of  the  Socialists 
whom  I  had  met.  A  long  black  overcoat  of 
cheap  material  concealed  his  work-worn  gar- 
ments to  the  knees,  and  his  hands,  dark  with 


218  THE  WORKERS 

the  dye  of  clothing,  lay  folded  in  his  lap.  Ills 
face  showed  faintly  the  marks  of  Jewish  origin, 
and,  although  he  was  full  three-and-twenty,  he 
bore  a  strange  resemblance  to  the  Christ-child  in 
Hoffmann's  picture  of  "  Jesus  among  the  Doc- 
tors in  the  Temple." 

Quite  oblivious  to  what  was  passing  about  him, 
he  sat  in  his  usual  mood,  with  an  expression  of 
much  serenity  on  his  pale  face,  and  his  great, 
dark,  luminous  eyes  glowing  with  the  ardor  of 
his  thought. 

I  have  never  lost  the  first  impression  which  he 
made  upon  me;  it  was  in  one  of  these  meetings, 
when  an  idle  slur  had  been  cast  upon  his  race  and 
the  Leader  had  given  him  an  opportunity  to  re- 
ply. He  rose  modestly  to  his  feet,  and  from  the 
first  my  attention  was  riveted  by  the  convincing 
quality  in  his  rich,  deep  voice.  Without  a  word 
of  cheap  rejoinder,  he  simply  restated  the  issues 
of  debate  in  clear,  incisive  sentences,  which 
seemed  to  gather  force  from  their  broken  Eng- 
lish, until  he  had  shown  the  entire  irrelevance 
of  the  insulting  charge,  even  had  it  been  true. 

I  had  waited  for  him  on  that  afternoon  at  the 
meeting's  end,  and  we  began  an  acquaintance 
which  to  me  has  been  of  great  value.  It  is  easy 
to  predict  for  such  a  man  an  eventual  escape  from 
the  bondage  of  a  sweat-shop,  but,  inasmuch  as  he 


AMONG  THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         219 

has  been  held  in  slavery  to  that  work  from  his 
earliest  infant  memories  of  a  crowded  den  in  Po- 
land, where  he  was  born,  I  feel  some  measure  of 
justice  in  naming  him  "  The  Victim." 

Promptly  on  the  hour  the  Leader  called  the 
meeting  to  order,  and  introduced  the  Poet,  whose 
paper  presented  the  topic  of  the  day's  debate.  In 
a  few  moments  we  were  all  following  in  close  at- 
tention the  ready  flow  of  the  poet's  voice  as  it 
passed  with  clear  articulation  over  the  well- 
chosen  words  of  his  introductory  sentences. 
There  was  admirable  precision  in  the  statement 
of  the  case  at  issue,  and  we  were  bracing  our- 
selves with  pleasure  for  the  logical  sequences  of 
detailed  discussion,  when,  to  our  surprise,  the 
Poet  broke  abruptly  from  all  judicial  treatment 
of  his  theme.  At  a  single  leap,  he  took  the 
ground  that  certainly  the  Exposition  should  be 
accessible  every  day — that  its  opening  on  Sun- 
days was  not  a  subject  for  debate. 

Then  there  followed  a  storm  of  hot  invective. 
Christianity  was  assailed  as  the  giant  superstition 
of  historic  civilization,  still,  daring,  to  the  shame 
of  high  intelligence,  to  hold  its  fetich  head  aloft 
in  the  light  of  modern  science.  Its  ministers 
were  attacked  as  sycophantic  parasites,  whose 
only  motive,  in  urging  the  closing  of  the  Fair  on 
Sundays,  was  the  fear  of  the  spread  among  work- 


220  THE   WORKERS 

ing  people  of  that  enlightenment  which  will 
achieve  the  overthrow  of  capitalistic  society  and 
with  it  the  tottering  structure  of  the  Church. 
Most  of  all,  his  bitterness  spent  itself  upon  these 
"  blind  leaders  of  the  blind,"  as  he  called  them, 
who  will  not  themselves  enter  into  a  knowledge 
of  a  better  state  nor  suffer  others  to  enter  it,  and 
who  grievously  break  the  law  of  rest  on  Sundays 
in  befooling  their  fellow-men,  and  then  live 
through  the  remaining  days  in  luxurious  unpro- 
ductiveness upon  the  labor  of  their  dupes. 

What  was  coming  next  we  could  not  guess,  and 
it  seemed  a  long  cry  to  any  shout  of  exultation 
from  all  this,  but  he  accomplished  it  with  facility, 
for  his  paper  closed  with  a  peroration,  wherein 
he  rose  to  fervid  panegyric  upon  the  increasing 
intellectual  emancipation  of  workingmen.  The 
Romish  Church,  he  said,  keeps  many  of  them  in 
bondage  yet,  but  the  Protestant  organizations 
have  all  but  lost  their  hold  upon  them;  and  the 
widening  gulf  between  the  two  great  classes  in 
society  has  left  these  churches  in  the  nakedness 
of  their  true  character,  as  mere  centres  of  the 
social  life  of  the  very  rich  and  of  the  upper  bour- 
•geoisie,  and  as  a  prop  to  the  social  order  from 
which  these  idle  classes  so  richly  profit,  at  the 
merciless  cost  of  the  wage-earners. 

Instantly  this  was  accepted  as  the  dominant 


AMONG   THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         221 

note  of  the  meeting.  The  applause  which  greeted 
it  was  genuine  and  prolonged.  With  light- 
hearted  disregard  of  the  subject  appointed  for 
debate,  men  began  ardently  to  speak  to  this  new 
theme:  Modern  Christianity  a  vast  hypocrisy — 
a  cloak  made  use  of  by  vested  interest  to  conceal 
from  the  common  people  the  real  nature  of  the 
grounds  on  which  it  stands. 

But  for  the  masterly  qualities  of  the  Leader, 
who  held  the  meeting  to  strict  parliamentary 
order,  it  might  have  degenerated  into  a  mob. 
Men  were  crowding  one  another  in  their  desire 
to  gain  the  floor,  but  not  for  a  moment  was  the 
peaceful  conduct  of  the  gathering  disturbed. 
With  accurate  knowledge  of  the  shades  of  social 
belief  there  represented  and  of  the  personalities 
of  the  men,  the  Leader  chose  for  recognition  with 
discriminating  justice. 

At  one  moment  an  American  workman  was 
speaking,  a  Socialist  of  the  general  school  of 
Social  Democracy.  There  was  self-respecting 
dignity  about  him  and  a  calm  reserve  as  he 
began. 

The  Christian  Church  served  as  well  as  any 
institution  of  the  capitalistic  order,  he  said,  to 
measure  the  growing  cleavage  between  the  classes 
in  society.  But,  to  his  mind,  the  paper  of  the 
afternoon  had  emphasized  unnecessarily  the  ex- 


222  THE   WORKERS 

istence  of  the  bourgeoisie;  for,  economically 
considered,  there  is  no  longer  a  middle-class  to  be 
reckoned  with  in  vital  questions.  There  remain 
simply  the  capitalists  and  the  proletarians.  The 
old  middle-class,  which  had  made  its  living  by 
individual  enterprise,  was  fast  being  forced  (by 
the  play  of  natural  laws,  which  showed  them- 
selves in  the  increasing  centralization  of  capital) 
out  of  the  possibility  of  successful  competition 
with  aggregated  wealth,  and  down,  for  the  most 
part,  to  the  level  of  those  who  can  bring  to  pro- 
duction, not  land  nor  capital,  but  merely  their 
native  qualities  of  physical  strength,  or  manual 
skill,  or  mental  ability — proletarians,  all  of  them, 
whether  manual  or  intellectual,  and  coming 
surely,  in  the  slow  development  of  evolution,  to 
a  conscious  knowledge  of  their  community  of  in- 
terest as  against  the  vested  "  rights  "  of  monopoly 
in  the  material  instruments  of  production.  But 
athwart  this  path  of  progress  rose  the  hardened 
structure  of  the  Christian  Church,  bringing  to 
bear  against  it  all  her  temporal  power  and  the 
full  force  of  her  accumulated  superstitions. 

But  now  the  speaker's  calm  deserted  him,  and, 
with  fist  uplifted  in  threatening  gesture,  and  his 
strong,  bronzed  face  working  with  the  fervor  of 
his  hate,  he  cried  out  against  the  ministers  of 
Christ,  who  preach  to  the  wronged  and  down- 


AMONG  THE  REVOLUTIONARIES         223 

trodden  poor  the  duty  of  patience  with  their  "  di- 
vinely appointed  lot,"  and  who  try  to  soothe 
them  to  blind  submission  with  promises  of  an 
endless  future  of  ecstatic  blessedness,  when  the 
rich  of  this  world  shall  burn  in  the  unquenchable 
fires  of  hell. 

"  Oh!  the  fiendishness  of  these  men,"  he 
shouted,  "  who  hide  from  ignorant  minds  the 
truth,  which  they  themselves  know  full  well,  that 
for  no  mortal  man  is  there  any  heaven  or  hell, 
which  he  does  not  realize  in  the  span  of  his 
earthly  history,  and  if  he  misses  here  the  happi- 
ness to  which  he  was  rightly  born,  he  misses  it 
forever!  And  the  miserable  paltriness  of  their 
motive  in  working  this  cruel  wrong — merely  that 
they  may  exempt  themselves  from  toil  and  live  in 
comfort  upon  the  labor  of  others,  instead  of  be- 
ing, where  most  of  them  belong,  out  in  the  open 
fields  hoeing  corn !  " 

In  another  moment  a  man  of  widely  different 
cult  was  speaking.  For  some  time  he  had  been 
trying  to  gain  the  floor,  and  now  the  Leader  rec- 
ognized him.  He  was  a  Christian  Socialist,  chief 
spokesman  of  the  little  band  of  his  persuasion, 
who  were  very  regular  in  their  attendance  upon 
these  meetings.  An  insignificant  Englishman  he 
was,  whose  h's  transposed  themselves  with  con- 
sistent perversity,  and  whose  general  qualities  of 


224  THE   WORKERS 

physique,  and  tone,  and  manner  reminded  one 
strongly  of  the  type  of  parson  with  weak  lungs 
and  a  large  family  who  is  incumbent  in  out-of-the- 
way  English  churches  on  the  Continent.  He  was 
not  wanting  in  pluck  nor  in  a  certain  strength  of 
conviction,  but  the  gentleness  of  the  dove  was 
his  without  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent,  and  the 
words  he  spoke,  in  weak  voice  and  apologetic 
manner,  while  they  would  have  met  with  sympa- 
thy in  a  company  of  believers  whose  emotions 
were  already  stirred,  served  here  only  to  inflame 
the  antagonisms  of  men  whose  views  were  stoutly 
materialistic. 

The  Communistic  Anarchist  was  the  first  to 
rise  when  the  Christian  Socialist  sat  down,  and 
the  Leader  gave  to  him  the  privilege  of  the  floor. 
There  was  the  power  of  primal  force  in  the  sup- 
pressed passion  of  the  man,  and  joined  to  this  the 
exciting  struggle  of  a  human  will  in  keeping  rage 
in  bounds.  His  heavy  frame  heaved  with  parox- 
ysms of  volcanic  wrath,  and  the  sibilants  of  Eng- 
lish speech,  augmented  by  the  z's  in  Teutonic 
struggle  with  the  sound  of  th,  came  hissing 
and  sputtering  through  his  teeth  from  a  tongue 
which  could  not  frame  words  fast  enough  for  his 
impatience. 

I  have  no  power  to  reproduce  his  actual  sen- 
tences, and  at  best  1  can  but  suggest  the  purport 


AMONG  THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         225 

of  his  talk,  which  was  in  full  sympathy  with  most 
of  what  had  gone  before: 

"  God  a  decaying  myth,  and  the  Bible  a  silly 
legend,  and  Jesus  a  good  man  seeing  some  human, 
truth,  but  gone  mad  in  the  credulous  ignorance 
of  his  age,  and  dead  these  two  thousand  years, 
and  Christianity  a  hoary  superstition,  made  use  of 
in  its  last  days  by  bourgeois  civilization  to  stave 
off  a  little  longer  its  own  fateful  day  of  reckon- 
ing! And  here  is  a  man,  who  calls  himself  a 
Socialist,  who  dares  to  bring  before  us  this  en- 
feebled monster  of  worn-out  faith,  which  has 
been  the  tyrant  of  the  poor  from  the  moment  of 
gaining  temporal  power,  trying  to  hide  its  op- 
pressions under  a  guise  of  so-called  charity!  It 
has  been,  too,  from  the  beginning  the  stubborn- 
est  foe  of  scientific  knowledge,  and  even  now, 
in  the  last  hour  of  its  heartless  cruelties,  employs 
its  utmost  craft  to  put  off  the  manifest  dawn  of 
freedom  to  the  workers." 

Breaking  through  the  forced  restraint  of  the 
beginning,  his  feelings  bore  him  in  resistless 
course  until,  in  the  full  sweep  of  his  long  arms, 
his  fingers  were  clutching  wildly  at  the  empty 
air,  and  his  blood-shot  eyes  were  rolling  in  a 
frenzy,  and  his  hair  stood  straight  on  end,  while 
his  voice  rose  to  its  highest  pitch  in  fierce  scorn 
and  denunciation. 
15 


226  THE   WORKERS 

The  hall  was  still  echoing  to  the  roar,  when 
a  scattered  number  of  us  were  on  our  feet,  strain- 
ing forward  in  our  efforts  to  catch  the  Leader's 
eye.  The  Victim  was  recognized,  and  almost  im- 
mediately the  meeting  began  to  feel  the  calming 
effect  of  a  cool,  conciliatory  mind.  Clearness  was 
highly  characteristic  of  the  Victim's  mental  proc- 
esses, and,  as  his  ideas  slowly  framed  themselves, 
in  translation  to  English  from  the  native  language 
in  which  he  thought,  they  took  on  a  charming 
piquancy  and  precision,  in  the  oddest  mixtures  of 
strange  idioms  and  bookish  phrases  and  the  cur- 
rent coin  of  common  slang. 

"  The  assigned  subject  for  debate  this  after- 
noon," he  was  saying  (in  a  paraphrase  which 
wholly  lacks  his  strongly  individual  character), 
"  is  one  which  opens  up  questions  of  great  eco- 
nomic value  and  importance.  It  is  a  pity,  it 
seems  to  me,  that  the  time  has  been  consumed  in 
a  discussion  of  side  issues,  rather  than  of  the  fun- 
damental question  of  the  observance  of  Sunday 
as  an  economic  institution,  and  the  relation  borne 
to  that  great  issue  by  the  present  agitation  over 
the  opening  of  the  Exposition  grounds  on  Sun- 
days. It  is  well  to  remember  that  this  is  a  meet- 
ing of  Socialists.  Freedom  of  speech  is  one  of 
our  cardinal  beliefs.  But  a  freedom  of  speech 
which  ignores  the  subject  appointed  for  debate 


AMONG  THE  EEVOLUTIONAEIES         227 

would  make  better  use  of  its  liberty  by  asking  for 
a  particular  afternoon  to  be  devoted  to  the  theme 
which  it  wishes  to  discuss. 

"  Not  only  has  the  talk  of  to-day  been  wide  of 
the  mark,  but  it  has  been  out  of  harmony  with 
the  genius  of  Socialism.  I  am  proud  to  own  my- 
self a  Scientific  Socialist,  and  a  disciple  of  Karl 
Marx.  To  my  way  of  thinking,  there  can  be  no 
verified  truth  which  the  mind  of  man  can  accept 
as  such  aside  from  the  established  results  of  nat- 
uralistic science.  I,  therefore,  attach  no  more 
value  to  Christianity,  as  an  authoritative  source 
of  truth,  than  I  do  to  the  sacred  writings  of  my 
race.  Both  are  merely  historical  facts,  to  be 
dealt  with  precisely  as  are  all  the  facts  of  history. 
This  afternoon,  however,  they  have  been  dealt 
with  in  a  spirit  of  intolerance,  as  malignant  and 
uncompromising  as  the  spirit  which  is  charged 
against  historic  Christianity.  It  will  be  well  for 
us  who  profess  Socialism  to  be  on  our  guard,  lest 
there  grow  up  among  us  an  intolerance  bred  of 
dogmatic  science,  which  may  prove  in  the  future 
as  destructive  of  free  thought  and  of  true  progress 
as  has  proved  in  the  past  the  bigotry  of  dogmatic 
theology." 

It  was  now  well  pat.1  the  ordinary  time  for  ad- 
journing. The  Leader  announced  the  fact,  and 
I  feared  that  he  meant  to  call  for  a  motion  to  ad- 


238  THE   WORKERS 

journ  without  making  his  usual  closing  speech. 
It  was  his  habit  to  sura  up  the  discussion,  and  we 
always  looked  forward  to  that  address,  for  the 
Leader  had  the  gift  of  speech  and  a  liking  for  it, 
and  a  knowledge,  moreover,  of  the  minds  of  So- 
cialists which  was  by  no  means  common.  There 
was  little  of  the  declamatory  in  his  habitual 
speaking,  and  he  lacked  the  analytical  skill  of 
some  of  the  other  members,  but  he  had  a  shrewd 
perception  of  the  dramatic,  and  he  could  make 
use  of  it  to  striking  purpose.  He  had  been  born 
and  bred  a  workingman,  and  was  an  artisan  of 
much  ability,  and  he  knew  thoroughly  the  work- 
men's point  of  view.  I  have  watched  him  play 
upon  their  feelings  with  the  skill  of  a  native 
orator. 

He  spoke  now  in  high  commendation  of  what 
The  Victim  had  said,  and  deplored  the  fact  that 
the  afternoon  had  passed  without  discussion  of 
the  appointed  theme.  As  a  Socialist,  he  regret- 
ted, he  said,  that  the  talk  had  taken  the  form 
of  an  attack  upon  Christianity.  Such  a  spirit 
was  directly  counter  to  the  tolerance  of  Socialism. 
For  his  own  part,  although  he  had  been  brought 
up  under  the  influence  of  the  Protestant  religion, 
he  found  himself  very  little  in  sympathy  with 
modern  Christianity.  Supernaturalism  he  was 
willing  to  regard  as  a  question  apart,  and  as  be- 


AMONG  THE  REVOLUTIONARIES         229 

ing  entitled  to  fair,  dispassionate  discussion,  but 
the  Christian  Church,  as  a  practical  embodiment 
of  the  teachings  of  its  founder,  he  felt  justified 
in  judging  in  the  light  of  every-day  facts,  and  in 
their  light  he  was  free  to  say  that  Christianity 
was  a  failure. 

"  Let  us  take  an  illustration,"  he  went  on. 
"  A  very  urgent  problem  in  our  city  just  now  is 
that  of  '  the  unemployed.'  Certain  of  the  news- 
papers have  made  a  careful  investigation  in  the 
last  few  weeks,  and  the  result  of  their  inquiry 
shows  that,  within  the  city  limits  to-day,  there  are 
at  least  thirty  thousand  men  out  of  work.  There 
may  be  fifty  thousand,  but  the  first  estimate  is 
well  within  the  truth. 

"It  is  a  matter  primarily  of  supply  and  de- 
mand. Among  these  idle  men  there  may  be 
many  inefficients  and  many  chronic  loafers,  and 
many  who,  from  one  cause  and  another,  are  in- 
capable of  effective  work.  But  the  nature  of  the 
present  status  is  unaffected  by  these  considera- 
tions. It  means,  in  its  last  analysis,  that  the  local 
labor  market  is  overstocked  to  the  extent  of  thirty 
thousand  men.  However  willing  to  work,  and 
however  efficient  as  workmen  they  might  be, 
these  men,  or  their  equivalent  in  number,  under 
existing  conditions,  would  invariably  find  them- 
selves unemployed. 


230  THE  WORKERS 

"  And  Low  does  the  Christian  Church  among 
us  hold  itself  in  relation  to  this  problem?  Its 
members  profess  themselves  the  disciples  of  '  the 
meek  and  lowly  Jesus,'  whom  they  call  '  divine.' 
He  said  of  Himself  that  '  He  had  not  where  to 
lay  His  head,'  and  He  was  the  first  Socialist  in 
His  teaching  of  universal  brotherhood. 

"  His  followers  build  gorgeous  temples  to  His 
worship  in  our  city,  and  out  of  the  fear,  appar- 
ently, that  some  of  the  shelterless  waifs,  whom 
He  taught  them  to  know  as  brothers  and  who  are 
in  the  very  plight  their  Master  was,  should  lay 
their  weary  heads  upon  the  cushioned  seats,  they 
keep  the  churches  tight  locked  through  six  days 
of  the  week,  and  then  open  them  on  one  day  for 
the  exclusive  purpose  of  praising  that  Master's 
name! 

"  Nor  is  this  condition  truer  of  Chicago  than 
it  is  of  any  large  industrial  centre  in  this  country, 
or  even  in  all  Christendom,"  he  went  on,  warm- 
ing to  his  theme  as  the  intently  listening  company 
hailed  vociferously  the  name  of  the  Redeemer  as 
the  first  teacher  of  Socialism.  "  Only  last  week 
news  came  from  London  that  the  unemployed 
there  had  grown  to  an  army  of  one  hundred 
thousand  men.  Picture  the  horror  of  it,  and  the 
suffering,  and  the  awful  degradation,  not  in  these 
men  alone,  but  among  the  women  and  children 


AMONG  THE  KEVOLUTIONAEIES         231 

wnom  they  represent!  Cold,  and  hunger,  and 
the  ravages  of  disease  were  bad  enough,  in  the 
ferocity  of  this  inclement  winter;  but  imagine, 
if  you  can,  the  pitiless  despair  which  is  eating  the 
hearts  out  of  these  our  brothers,  and  then  tell  me 
whether  we  have  not  here  a  fairly  good  imitation 
of  the  hell  where  '  the  worm  dieth  not,  and  the 
fire  is  not  quenched.' 

"  Suppose,  for  a  moment,  that  the  Christ  were 
to  appear  in  the  heart  of  that  '  Christian '  city. 
Most  certainly  He  would  be  found  among  the 
poor,  ministering  to  their  needs,  and  comforting 
them. in  their  sorrows,  and  bringing  life  and  hope 
among  them.  I  can  imagine  His  perplexity  at 
sight  of  the  man-inflicted  suffering  and  degrada- 
tion, and  the  Godless  tyranny  of  men  over  their 
brother  men,  in  the  very  stronghold  of  Christian- 
ity and  two  thousand  years  after  He  had  taught 
that,  under  the  Fatherhood  of  God,  to  love  our 
neighbor  as  ourselves  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law 
to  all  who  have  need  of  our  sympathy  and  help. 

"  I  hear  Him  ask  in  His  amazement  for  some 
authoritative  head  of  the  brotherhood  which  He 
established  upon  earth.  I  hear  men  tell  Him 
that  He  must  see  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 
I  watch  Him  as  He  walks  to  the  palace  of  the 
Archbishop,  along  narrow  streets  which  thunder 
to  the  din  of  mammon-worship  and  which  are 


232  THE   WORKERS 

blackened  with  the  smoke  from  off  its  countless 
altars,  seeing  everywhere  the  hideous  contrasts 
between  rich  and  poor,  and  the  lives  of  His  toil- 
ing ones  worn  out  in  ceaseless  labor. 

"  Weighed  down  with  the  heartless  misery  of 
the  world,  I  see  Him  stand  patiently  at  the  palace- 
gate.  A  footman  in  rich  livery  answers  to  His 
knock. 

" '  I  would  see  the  Archbishop/  says  the 
Christ. 

"  '  And  who  shall  I  say  wishes  to  see  his  Lord- 
ship ? '  asks  the  flunky. 

"  (  Tell  him  that  his  Master  is  at  the  gate.' 

"  l  Oh,'  replies  the  servant,  '  but  his  Lordship 
has  no  "  master  "  ;  he  is  the  primate  of  all  Eng- 
land!'" 

Here  the  speaker  abruptly  ceased,  but  for  that 
gathered  company  the  picture  was  complete,  and 
the  cheers  with  which  the  hall  had  rung  at  the 
mention  of  Christ,  the  social  teacher,  were 
changed  to  hisses  against  the  church  which  calls 
itself  by  His  name. 

On  the  crowded  stairs,  as  we  descended  to  the 
street,  I  found  myself  beside  a  young  German 
mechanic  whose  acquaintance  I  had  made  in 
these  meetings.  My  knowledge  of  him  was  lim- 
ited to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  Socialist  and  was 
employed  in  a  large  factory  on  the  North  Side. 


AMONG   THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         233 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  this  evening?  "  he 
asked,  after  our  exchange  of  greetings. 

"  I  have  no  definite  plan,"  I  said. 

"  Then  come  home  with  me,"  he  suggested, 
and  I  assented  gladly. 

We  were  a  long  time  getting  there,  but  when, 
at  last,  we  reached  his  door,  the  journey  was 
quickly  forgotten. 

As  flat  as  the  untroubled  sea,  the  open  prairie 
lay  about  us,  browned  and  seared  by  frosts  and 
gleaming  faintly  under  the  winter  stars.  Long 
parallels  of  street-lamps,  cutting  one  another 
at  right  angles,  marked  the  outlines  of  city 
"  blocks,"  and  threw  into  stronger  relief  the 
deep  black  of  clustered  trees  and  the  forms  of 
lonely  cottages  with  lights  glancing  dimly  from 
their  windows. 

When  my  friend  opened  the  door  of  his  house, 
there  was  nothing  in  the  domestic  scene  which 
met  us  to  suggest  the  home  of  a  revolutionary.  It 
was  the  typical  home,  rather,  of  the  prosperous 
American  workman.  The  living-room,  which 
we  entered,  was  aglow  with  light,  and  redolent 
of  dry,  unwholesome,  excessive  heat  from  a  closed 
iron  stove,  and  it  seemed  at  first  to  be  already 
crowded  by  occupants.  The  wife  was  standing 
over  a  cradle,  in  which  she  softly  rocked  her  baby, 
whose  sleep  was  undisturbed  by  the  conversation 


234  THE   WORKERS 

between  two  young  men  of  the  family.  An  old 
couple,  seated  in  easy  chairs,  were  reading  to 
themselves,  and  formed  a  feature  of  the  picture 
that  fitted  well  with  the  books  which  stood 
ranged  in  swinging  brackets  on  the  wall.  There 
was  the  usual  floral  paper,  with  a  border  sad 
enough  to  move  one  to  tears,  and  the  worsted 
tidies,  and  the  prints  wherein  sentimentality  has 
so  long  and  so  often  posed  as  sentiment.  But  the 
plain,  rough  furniture  was  redeemed  by  the 
marks  of  long  usefulness,  and  the  room,  as  a 
whole,  had  all  the  cosey  homeliness  of  fitness  to 
those  whom  it  served. 

Soon  we  were  seated  at  supper,  and  the  family, 
accustomed,  apparently,  to  the  presence  of  a 
stranger  brought  home  from  the  meeting,  left 
my  friend  and  me  to  our  own  discussion  of  So- 
cialistic themes.  I  found  this  deeply  interesting, 
for  my  host  was  finely  representative  of  the  views 
of  the  majority  of  the  Socialists  whom  I  saw  at 
Waverley  Hall.  In  the  main  he  was  a  Social 
Democrat.  His  economic  views  were  drawn,  I 
found,  entirely  from  Karl  Marx.  "  Das  Kapi- 
tal  "  was  his  Bible,  and  he  seemed  to  know  it  by 
heart.  To  question  Marx's  theory  of  value  or  his 
treatment  of  labor  in  relation  to  production  was 
blasphemy  akin  to  casting  doubt  before  a  devout 
believer  upon  the  plenary  inspiration  of  the 
Scriptures. 


AMONG  THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         235 

He  was  a  Socialist  of  serene  temperament,  with 
boundless  faith  in  the  silent  processes  of  develop- 
ment. Propaganda  was  hysterical  from  his 
point  of  view. 

"  There  could  be  no  propaganda  in  behalf  of 
Socialism,"  he  said  to  me,  "  one  hundredth  part 
so  effective  as  the  unchecked  activity  of  men  who 
imagine  themselves  the  bulwarks  of  social  order 
and  the  bitterest  foes  of  Socialism.  We  have  no 
quarrel  with  the  increasing  centralization  of  capi- 
tal. The  opposition  to  '  trusts '  and  the  like 
comes  mainly  from  the  bourgeoisie,  who  feel 
themselves  being  forced  out  of  independent  busi- 
ness. We  Socialists  are  already  of  the  proletariat, 
and  we  see  clearly  that  all  trusts  and  syndicates 
are  the  inevitable  forerunners  of  still  greater  cen- 
tralization. The  men  who  are  employing  their 
rare  abilities  in  eliminating  the  useless  wastes  of 
competitive  production,  by  unifying  its  adminis- 
tration and  control,  and  so  reducing  greatly  the 
cost  of  the  finished  article,  and  who  are  perfect- 
ing the  machinery  of  transportation  and  distribu- 
tion by  like  unity  of  administration,  are  doing 
far  more  in  a  year  to  bring  about  a  co-operative 
organization  of  society  than  we  could  do,  by 
preaching  the  theory  of  collectivism,  in  a  hun- 
dred years. 

"  The  collectiviat  order  of  society  may  be  dis- 


236  THE   WORKERS 

tant,  but,  at  least,  we  have  this  comfort — that  the 
day  of  the  old  individualist,  anarchical  order  is 
past.  We  can  never  return  to  it.  The  centrali- 
zation of  capital  has  proved  the  inadequacy  of 
all  that,  in  the  present  stage  of  progress.  We 
have  no  choice  but  to  go  on  to  further  centraliza- 
tion, and  the  legical  outcome  must  be  eventually, 
not  the  monopoly  of  everything  by  a  few,  but 
the  common  ownership  of  all  land  and  capital  by 
all  the  people." 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  next  morning  that 
I  chanced  to  meet,  in  the  thick  of  a  sweat-shop 
region  of  the  West  Side,  an  old  acquaintance  of 
the  Socialist  meetings.  "  The  Unionist  "  I  shall 
call  him,  for  he  had  much  to  do  with  organizing 
the  workers  in  sweat-shops  into  labor-unions.  A 
victim  of  the  sweaters  himself,  earning  his  living 
at  a  sewing-machine  in  a  densely  crowded  shop, 
he  yet  managed  to  get  about  among  the  other 
victims  and  further  their  organization.  More 
than  once  he  had  taken  me  with  him  on  his 
rounds,  and  I  had  grown  familiar  with  the  sigh't 
of  rooms,  in  all  the  poorer  sections  of  the  city 
where  the  rent  is  relatively  low,  turned  into  fac- 
tories on  a  small  scale  for  the  manufacture  of 
ready-made  garments. 

And  this  idea  of  miniature  factories  is  really 


AN  EVASION  OP  THE  FACTORY:   SYSTEM  OF  PRODUCTION. 


AMONG   THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         237 

the  key  to  the  situation.  The  industry  of  ready- 
made  clothing  is  an  enormous  one,  involving  mill- 
ions of  dollars  of  invested  capital,  and  competi- 
tion among  the  merchants  is  very  keen.  The 
difference  of  a  fraction  of  a  cent  in  the  cost  of 
production,  by  the  piece,  of  a  given  garment  may 
mean  the  difference  between  profit  and  loss  in 
the  whole  output.  Cheapness  of  production  is, 
therefore,  of  the  first  necessity. 

Merchants  of  the  greatest  executive  ability  and 
highest  efficiency  are  able  to  secure  the  maximum 
of  cheap  production  through  the  legitimate  fac- 
tory system.  Men  of  less  business  ability,  in 
order  to  compete  successfully,  avoid  the  factory 
system  of  production  and  make  use  of  the  sweat- 
shops instead.  The  sweat-shop  is,  therefore,  in 
a  single  word,  an  evasion,  under  the  stress  of  com- 
petition, of  the  factory  system  of  production. 

There  are  few  industries  which  could  profit 
any  longer  by  this  system  as  opposed  to  that  of 
the  factory,  but  the  manufacture  of  ready-made 
clothing  is  an  exception ;  and,  in  it,  the  less  fit  to 
survive  are  sure  to  take  advantage  of  the  sweat- 
shops, until  they  have  been  driven  out  of  the 
business  altogether  by  those  whose  superior  abili- 
ties enable  them  to  undersell  the  product  of  the 
shops  with  the  product  of  legitimate  factories. 

The  manufacturer  who  makes  use  of  the  fac- 


238  THE   WORKERS 

tory  system  at  once  subjects  himself  to  certain 
regulations.  His  work-rooms  must  show  a  cer- 
tain cubic  area  to  every  operative  employed;  cer- 
tain sanitary  provisions  must  be  regarded;  chil- 
dren under  a  certain  age  must  not  be  set  to  work, 
and  a  prescribed  number  of  hours  must  be  ac- 
cepted as  the  limit  of  the  working  day. 

But  the  manufacture  of  ready-made  clothing 
lends  itself  to  an  easy  escape  from  all  this.  In- 
stead of  having  his  work  done  in  a  factory,  sub- 
ject to  wholesome  but  costly  restrictions,  a  mer- 
chant may  give  it  out  to  the  lowest  bidders 
among  the  sweaters.  These  men  take  it  to  their 
homes,  and  secure  there  the  services  of  their  wives 
and  children,  and  employ  the  families  of  their 
neighbors.  Thousands  of  rooms  are  thus  closely 
packed  with  workers  who  have  underbid  one  an- 
other in  the  struggle  for  existence,  until,  in  the 
cheapest  quarters  available,  without  regard  to 
light  and  air,  and  decent  sanitation,  the  work  is 
hurried  forward  at  feverish  haste  by  human 
wretches  whose  utmost  toil  through  excessive 
hours  can  often  earn  them  little  more  than  the 
means  of  bare  subsistence. 

The  Unionist  was  leading  me  in  a  brisk  walk 
through  a  labyrinth  of  city  squalor.  Over  un- 
swept  wooden  pavements  we  passed,  along  un- 
cleaned,  wooden  streets,  in  whose  broken  surfaces 


AMONG  THE   REVOLUTIONARIES         239 

lay  heaps  of  decaying  garbage.  Wooden  houses 
for  the  most  part  flanked  the  way,  hideous, 
blackened  shanties  which  leaned  grotesquely  on 
insecure  foundations,  with  rickety  flights  of 
broken  steps  clinging  to  the  buildings'  sides, 
where,  on  warmer  days,  the  teeming  population 
can  be  seen  overflowing  from  work-rooms  and 
sewing  ceaselessly,  even  in  their  search  for  fresh 
air. 

Opening  directly  upon  the  black  rot  of  crum- 
bling pavements  were  the  steep  descents  to  dark 
cellars  which  undermine  these  reeking  hovels. 
From  many  of  them,  as  we  passed,  came  the  hot 
breath  of  furnaces  laden  with  the  wholesome 
smell  of  baking  bread.  These  were  the  under- 
ground bakeries  of  the  region,  and  down  their 
wooden  steps,  whose  surfaces  were  buried  under 
layers  of  hardened  filth,  were  ranged  the  great 
round  loaves  of  dark  bread  on  which  this  popu- 
lation largely  lives.  While  through  the  open 
doors,  which  admitted  freely  the  floating  germs 
from  off  the  putrid  streets,  we  caught  glimpses  of 
baking-tins  full  of  soft  muffins  ready  for  the  oven, 
and  bakers  in  white  dress  who  moved  about  in  the 
gloomy,  fetid  air  over  floors  strewn  with  ashes 
and  the  crumpled  shells  of  eggs  and  crumbs  of 
unbaked  dough. 

Mingling  in   the   squalid   crowds   upon   the 


240  THE  WORKERS 

streets  were  other  figures  peculiar  to  the  scene. 
Women  they  were  for  the  most  part,  with 
ragged,  faded  shawls  tied  round  their  heads  and 
falling  over  their  shoulders,  and  limp  skirts, 
dangling  about  their  legs  and  brushing  the  sur- 
face slime  of  the  pavements.  Some  upon  their 
shoulders,  and  others  in  Oriental  fashion  upon 
their  heads,  they  bore  large  bundles  of  clothing 
which  had  been  cut  at  the  great  dealers'  shops, 
and  which  they  were  taking  now  to  be  made  up 
in  the  sweaters'  dens. 

i  The  Unionist  was  talking  rapidly,  almost 
vehemently,  at  my  side,  with  the  swift,  nervous 
gesticulation  of  his  race,  for  he  was  a  young  Po- 
lish Jew,  of  short,  sturdy  figure,  with  wiry  black 
hair,  and  eyes  which  were  like  burnished  coals. 
The  scenes  about  us,  which  were  far  more  inter- 
esting to  me,  concerned  him  not  at  all  in  contrast 
with  the  delight  he  felt  in  picturing  the  outcome 
of  political  change.  Like  so  many  of  the  Social- 
ists whom  I  met,  he  was  an  admirable  workman, 
and  thoroughly  practical  in  his  views  of  life,  and 
hugely  energetic  and  efficient  in  the  organization 
of  his  trades-union;  but  yet  he  was  possessed,  as 
most  of  them  are,  of  a  strange  faculty  of  living 
intensely  at  times  in  dreams  of  a  fulfilment  of 
preconceptions  of  another  social  order.  He  was 
hard  at  it  now,  and  was  completely  blind  to  the 


r.ET('KNI\(;   WORK    FROM   SWEAT    SHOPS. 


AMONG  THE  REVOLUTIONARIES         241 

significant  facts  about  us.  "With  an  amazing  ac- 
quaintance with  contemporaneous  political  his- 
tory, he  had  been  sketching  for  me  what  he  re- 
garded as  a  great  economic  revolution  in  Amer- 
ica. The  drift  of  what  he  said  was  simply  that 
in  this  country,  from  colonial  days  to  the  pres- 
ent, the  middle-class,  who  are  the  small  owners 
of  land  and  capital,  have  been  the  main  support 
of  the  society  in  which  we  have  lived,  and  that  the 
chief  strength  of  the  middle-class  has  been  the 
farmer. 

In  every  movement  in  this  country  wherein 
the  wage-earners  have  sought  for  separate  politi- 
cal action  in  their  own  interests,  they  have  in- 
variably found  the  farming  classes  in  opposition 
to  them  and  supporters  of  conservatism.  But 
there  are  marked  indications  of  a  change,  he  went 
on.  The  farming  classes  are  no  longer  economi- 
cally independent,  in  the  sense  of  owning  their 
land  and  capital,  but  are  tenants  of  the  capitalists 
who  hold  their  mortgages.  And,  with  this 
change  in  economic  standing,  they  have  begun 
to  find  that  their  interests  lie,  not  in  maintaining 
rights  of  private  property,  which  have  robbed 
them  of  their  own,  but  in  joining  forces  with 
all  wage-earners  to  bring  about  a  state  of 
things  wherein  property  shall  be  a  monopoly 

of  all. 

16 


242  THE   WORKERS 

And  having  touched  once  more  in  prophetic 
spirit  the  beatific  vision  of  the  Socialist,  he  waxed 
eloquent  in  high  praise  of  it,  and  then  turned  to 
me  with  an  impatient: 

"  Can't  you  see  it,  Comrade  Vikoff — can't  you 
see  it? " 

He  sympathized  with  me  as  one  of  the  count- 
less seekers  for  employment  in  the  city,  and  he 
had  cultivated  me  because  of  my  interest  in  the 
meetings.  Really  admirable  in  their  sincerity 
were  his  patient  efforts  to  convert  me  to  Social- 
ism; and  when,  at  last,  he  gave  me  up,  I  am 
sure  that  it  was  from  the  conviction  that  he  was 
dealing  with  a  mind  hopelessly  Philistine,  whose 
constant  appeal  to  dry  facts  marked  it  as  wholly 
incapable  of  appreciation  of  the  charming  theory 
of  human  perfectability. 

We  turned  now  and  passed  down  a  flight  of 
wooden  steps  to  the  basement  of  a  small,  brick 
building.  I  knew  that  we  were  going  into  a 
sweater's  den,  for  I  had  visited  many  of  them 
under  the  lead  of  the  Unionist,  and  many  of  them 
on  my  own  account  in  futile  search  for  work. 

There  was  nothing  exceptional  in  this  one  be- 
yond the  fact  that,  more  commonly  than  in  the 
cellar,  I  had  found  the  shops  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  of  tener  still  in  the  upper  stories  of  tenements. 

As  we  neared  the  door,  there  was  the  usual 


AMONG  THE  REVOLUTIONARIES         243 

sound  of  the  clattering  rush  of  sewing-machines 
going  at  high  speed — starting  and  stopping 
abruptly,  at  uneven  intervals,  and  giving  you  the 
impression,  in  the  meantime,  of  racing  furiously 
with  one  another. 

The  opened  door  revealed  the  customary  sight 
of  a  room  perhaps  twenty  feet  square,  with  day- 
light entering  faintly  through  two  unwashed 
windows,  which  looked  out  upon  the  level  of  the 
street.     The  dampness  showed  itself  in  dew-like 
beads  along  the  walls  and  on  the  ceiling,  which  I 
could  easily  reach  as  I  stood  erect.    In  spite  of  its 
being  winter,  the  dingy  walls  were  dotted  with 
black  flies,  which  swarmed  most  about  a  cooking- 
stove,  over  which,  stirring  a  steaming  pot,  stood 
a  ragged,   dishevelled  woman,  who  looked  as 
though  she  could  never  have  known  any  but  ex- 
treme old  age.    In  the  remaining  floor-space  were 
crowded  a  dozen  machines  or  more,  over  which, 
in  the  thick,  unventilated  atmosphere,  were  the 
bending  figures  of  the  workers.    Oil-lamps  lit  up 
the  inner  recesses  of  the  room,  and  seemed  to  lend 
consistency  to  the  heavy  air.    From  an  eye  here 
and  there,  which  caught  his  in  a  single  movement, 
the  Unionist  received  a  look  of  recognition,  but 
not  a  head  was  turned  to  see  who  had  entered,  and 
the  whir  of  feverish  work  went  on,  unchecked 
for  an  instant  by  our  coming. 


214  THE   WORKERS 

While  the  Unionist  was  talking  to  the  sweater, 
I  walked  between  the  close  lines  of  machines  over 
a  floor  covered  with  deep  accumulations  of  dirt, 
and  shreds  of  cloth,  and  broken  threads,  to  where, 
in  a  corner,  a  group  of  girls  were  sewing.  The 
oldest  among  them  may  have  been  twelve,  and 
the  youngest  could  have  been  a  little  over  eight, 
and  their  wages  averaged  about  seventy-five  cents 
a  week  for  hours  that  varied  widely  according  to 
the  stress  of  work. 

Near  the  corner  was  a  passage,  and  through 
it  I  could  see  into  a  small  room  which  had  no  win- 
dow, nor  any  opening  but  the  door;  there,  in 
perpetual  darkness  lit  up  by  one  oil-lamp,  was  a 
man  who,  for  twelve  (and  sometimes  fifteen) 
hours  a  day,  pressed  the  new-made  clothing  for  a 
living. 

It  was  ladies'  cloaks  that  the  sewers  were  mak- 
ing; of  course,  they  worked  by  the  piece,  and  the 
best  among  them  could  earn  a  dollar  in  the  day, 
and  sometimes  more  by  working  over-time.  They 
were  very  smart-looking  garments,  and  their  air 
of  jaunty  stylishness  was  a  most  incongruous  in- 
trusion upon  their  surroundings.  When  I  asked 
the  Unionist  for  whose  trade  they  were  being 
made,  he  seemed  to  think  nothing  of  the  fact  that 
he  mentioned,  in  answer,  one  of  the  foremost  mer- 
chant-citizens of  the  town. 


AMONG  THE  REVOLUTIONARIES         245 

We  were  on  the  point  of  leaving,  when  a  heavy 
foot-fall  sounded  on  the  wooden  steps,  and  the 
door  opened  to  the  touch  of  an  inspecting  officer, 
whose  glowing  health  and  neat,  warm  uniform 
were  as  though  a  prosperous  breeze  were  sweep- 
ing the  stagnant  room.  The  work,  however,  was 
as  unaffected  by  his  coming  as  it  had  been  by  ours. 
"Not  a  sewer  noticed  him,  and  the  stitching  of 
machines  went  racing  on  with  unabated  swiftness. 
Only  "  the  old  man "  watched  nervously  the 
movements  of  the  officer,  as  he  walked  about 
the  shop,  making  note  of  the  bad  air,  and  the 
filth  upon  the  floors,  and  the  group  of  little 
girls,  and  the  dark,  unventilated  chamber  be- 
yond. 

The  Unionist  had  caught  me  by  the  arm. 

"We'll  wait,"  he  said;  and  we  stood  together 
in  the  shadow  of  the  open  door. 

Keturning  finally  to  the  side  of  the  old  sweater, 
the  officer  handed  him  a  printed  form. 

"  You  must  make  out  this  blank,"  he  said, 
"  and  have  it  ready  for  me  when  I  call  again." 
And  without  another  word  he  started  for  the 
stairs.  But  on  the  way  some  evidence  of  unsani- 
tary condition  more  shocking  than  any  met  with 
yet — a  heap  of  offal  on  the  floor,  or  a  fouler  gust 
of  poisoned  air — checked  him,  and  he  turned,  in- 
dignantly, to  the  nearest  worker. 


246  THE   WORKERS 

"  Look  here,"  I  could  hear  him  say,  "  you've 
got  to  clean  up  here,  and  right  away.  The  first 
thing  you  know  you'll  start  a  fever  that  will 
sweep  the  city  before  we  can  stop  it." 

The  young  Hebrew  had  stopped  his  work  and 
turned  half  round  in  his  chair  until  he  faced  the 
officer.  There  were  deep  lines  in  his  haggard, 
beardless  face,  and  his  wolfish  eyes  were  ablaze 
with  the  sense  of  sharp  injustice. 

"  You  tell  us  we've  got  to  keep  clean,"  he  an- 
swered, in  broken  English,  lifting  his  voice  to  a 
shout  above  the  clatter  of  machines.  "  What 
time  have  we  to  keep  clean  when  it's  all  we  can 
do  to  get  bread  ?  Don't  talk  to  us  about  disease ; 
it's  bread  we're  after,  bread! "  And  there 
sounded  in  the  voice  of  the  boy  the  cry  of  the 
hungry  for  food,  which  no  man  hears  and  can 
ever  forget. 

The  officer  passed,  speechless,  up  the  steps,  and 
we  followed  into  the  clean,  pure  air,  under  the 
boundless  blue  of  smiling  skies. 


COLUMBIAN  ANNIVERSARY  HOTEL — No.  1. 
CHICAGO,  ILL.,  Wednesday,  April  27,  1892. 

FROM  the  time  that  I  began  work  on  the  Ex- 
position grounds,  early  in  this  month,  it  has 
grown  increasingly  difficult  to  hark  back  in  im- 
agination to  the  unemployed  regime  of  the  win- 
ter. The  change  is  a  revolution  of  condition. 
Hundreds  of  us  live  all  together  within  this  vast 
enclosure,  and  have  rare  occasion  to  go  out  ex- 
cept on  Sundays,  and  then  only  if  we  choose. 
We  get  up  in  the  morning  to  an  eight-hour  day 
of  wholesome  labor  in  the  open  air,  and  return 
in  the  late  afternoon  with  healthy  appetites  to 
our  temporary  "  hotel,"  which  is  fragrant  of 
clean,  raw  pine,  and  stands  commandingly  on  the 
site  of  the  future  "  court  of  honor  "  near  the 
quiet  waters  of  the  lake.  About  four  hundred 
of  us  are  housed  and  fed  in  this  one  building; 
men  of  half  a  score  of  nationalities  and  of  as 
many  trades,  ranging  from  expert  carpenters  and 

247 


248  THE  WORKERS 

joiners  and  staff-moulders  and  steel-workers  to 
the  unskilled  laborers  who  work  in  gangs,  under 
the  direction  of  the  landscape-gardeners  or,  as  in 
my  case,  on  the  temporary  plank  roads  which  are 
built  for  the  heavy  carting. 

Guarded  by  sentries  and  high  barriers  from 
unsought  contact  with  all  beyond,  great  gangs 
of  us,  healthy,  robust  men,  live  and  labor  in  a 
marvellous  artificial  world.  No  sight  of  misery 
disturbs  us,  nor  of  despairing  poverty  out  in  vain 
search  for  employment.  Work  is  everywhere 
abundant  and  well  paid  and  directed  with  highest 
skill.  And  here,  amid  delicate,  web-like  frames 
of  steel  which  are  being  clothed  upon  with  forms 
of  exquisite  beauty,  and  among  broad,  dreary 
wastes  of  arid  dunes  and  marshy  pools  which  are 
being  transformed  by  our  labor  into  gardens  of 
flowers  and  velvet  lawns  joined  by  graceful 
bridges  over  wide  lagoons,  we  work  our  eight 
hours  a  day  in  peaceful  security  and  in  absolute 
confidence  of  our  pay. 

Complete  as  the  revolution  is,  it  is  yet  in 
perfect  keeping,  in  some  strange  way,  with  the 
general  change  wrought  by  the  coming  of  the 
spring.  This  spring,  in  its  effect  upon  the  labor 
market  in  Chicago,  was  like  the  heralding  of 
peace  and  plenty  after  war. 

There  was  no  longer  any  real  difficulty  in  se- 


A  ROAD   BUILDER  249 

curing  work.  The  employment-bureaus  offered 
it  in  abundance  in  the  country,  and  there  was 
some  revival  of  demand  even  within  the  city  lim- 
its. This  by  no  means  solved  the  problem  of  the 
unemployed,  however.  Many  of  the  men  were 
so  weakened  by  the  want  and  hardship  of  the 
winter  that  they  were  no  longer  in  condition  for 
effective  labor.  Some  of  the  bosses  who  were  in 
need  of  added  hands  were  obliged  to  turn  men 
off  because  of  physical  incapacity.  One  in- 
stance of  this  I  shall  not  soon  forget.  It  was 
when  I  overheard,  early  one  morning,  at  a 
factory-gate,  an  interview  between  a  would-be 
laborer  and  the  boss.  I  knew  the  applicant  for 
a  Russian  Jew  who  had  at  home  an  old  mother 
and  a  wife  and  two  young  children  to  support. 
He  had  had  intermittent  employment  through- 
out the  winter  in  a  sweater's  den,  barely  enough 
to  keep  them  all  alive,  and,  after  the  hardships 
of  the  cold  season,  he  was  again  in  desperate 
straits  for  work. 

The  boss  had  all  but  agreed  to  take  him  on  for 
some  sort  of  unskilled  labor,  when,  struck  evi- 
dently by  the  cadaverous  look  of  the  man,  he  told 
him  to  bare  his  arm.  Up  went  the  sleeve  of  his 
coat  and  of  his  ragged  flannel-shirt,  exposing  a 
naked  arm  with  the  muscles  nearly  gone,  and 
the  blue-white,  transparent  skin  stretched  over 


260  THE   WORKERS 

sinews  and  the  outlines  of  the  bones.  Pitiful 
beyond  words  was  his  effort  to  give  a  semblance 
of  strength  to  the  biceps  which  rose  faintly  to 
the  upward  movement  of  the  forearm.  But  the 
boss  sent  him  off  with  an  oath  and  a  contemptu- 
ous laugh,  and  I  watched  the  fellow  as  he  turned 
down  the  street,  facing  the  fact  of  his  starving 
family  with  a  despair  at  his  heart  which  only 
mortal  men  can  feel  and  no  mortal  tongue  can 
speak. 

Other  men  there  were  in  large  numbers  who 
during  the  winter  had  swelled  the  ranks  of  the 
unemployed,  but  who  now,  in  the  reviving 
warmth  and  the  growing  demand  for  labor, 
drifted  out  upon  the  open  country  to  their  con- 
genial life  of  vagrancy.  There  still  remained, 
however,  and  apparently  in  full  force,  the 
shrewd  gentry  who  stop  pedestrians  on  the  street 
with  apologetic  explanations  of  hard  luck  and 
with  begging  appeals  for  a  small  sum  where- 
with to  satisfy  immediate  wants.  Clark  and  I 
had  soon  come  to  know  this  as  a  recognized  oc- 
cupation among  the  men  with  whom  we  were 
thrown.  A  highly  profitable  trade  it  often 
proved,  for  a  dollar  a  day  is  a  gleaning  not  at  all 
uncommon  to  these  men,  and  the  more  skilful 
among  them  can  average  a  dollar  and  a  half. 
They  are  rather  the  sporting  spirits  among  the 


A   ROAD   BUILDER  251 

professionally  idle  ;  gambling  is  their  chief  di- 
version, and  their  contempt  for  honest  work  is 
as  genuine  as  that  of  a  snob. 

But  within  this  chaotic  maelstrom  of  the  un- 
employed, which  in  every  industrial  centre 
seethes  with  infinite  menace  to  social  safety,  is 
always  a  large  element  which  is  not  easily  classi- 
fied. It  was  still  to  be  found  on  the  streets  and 
in  the  lodging-houses  of  Chicago  when  the  win- 
ter was  gone,  in  seemingly  undiminished  num- 
bers and  in  much  its  accustomed  thriftlessness. 
The  class  has  to  be  defined  in  negative  terms. 
The  men  are  not  physically  incapable  of  work, 
nor  are  they  habitual  tramps,  nor  yet  the  beggars 
of  the  pavements,  and  they  lack  utterly  the  grit 
for  crime.  If  they  have  a  distinctive,  positive 
characteristic  as  a  class,  it  is  that  they  are  victims 
of  the  gregarious  instinct.  By  an  attraction 
which  is  apparently  irresistible  to  them,  they  are 
drawn  to  congested  labor  markets,  and  there  they 
cling,  preferring  instinctively  a  life  of  want  and 
squalor  in  fellowship  with  their  kind  to  one  of 
comparative  plenty  in  the  intolerable  loneliness 
of  the  country. 

There  is  a  semblance  of  sincerity  in  their 
search  for  work,  but  they  are  cursed  with  the 
rudiments  of  imagination  which  makes  cowards 
of  them  all,  and  their  incapacity  is  a  weakness  of 


262  THE   WORKERS 

will  rather  than  of  brawn.  Shrinkingly  they 
walk  the  narrow  ledge  which  in  many  planes  of 
life  separates  from  tramphood  and  crime,  while 
lacking  the  wit  for  the  latter  and  the  courage  for 
both  lives,  and  looking  ever  for  something  to 
turn  up  instead  of  resolutely  turning  something 
up.  Civilization  is  hard  on  such  men,  and  their 
sufferings  are  none  the  less  real  because  chiefly 
due  to  their  incapacity  for  the  struggle  for  ex- 
istence. And  not  only  their  own  misery  must  be 
reckoned  with  in  any  fair  estimate  of  the  case, 
but  far  more  the  misery  of  their  women  and 
children,  for  these  men  are  proletarians  in  the 
literalest  meaning  of  the  word. 

Finding  now  that  I  could  not  only  get  work, 
but  that  I  could  actually  be  eclectic  in  the  mat- 
ter, I  gladly  took  advantage  of  an  opportunity  of 
employment  among  the  unskilled  laborers  on  the 
Exposition  grounds. 

A  sharp-eyed,  energetic  American,  who  super- 
intends the  gangs  of  unskilled  laborers,  took  me 
on,  and  at  once  assigned  me  to  duty  under  an 
Irish  sub-boss  by  the  name  of  O'Shea.  When  I 
became  one  of  its  number,  Mr.  O' Shea's  gang  of 
eight  or  ten  men  had  torn  up  a  considerable  sec- 
tion of  the  plank  road  near  the  Transportation 
Building,  for  the  purpose  of  altering  the  level. 
Most  of  us  were  put  in  charge  of  wheel-barrows. 


A   EOAD   BUILDER  253 

These  we  filled  with  sand  at  a  neighboring  pile 
and  then  emptied  it  in  heaps  on  the  road-bed, 
while  the  remaining  members  of  the  gang  spread 
the  sand  with  shovels  to  the  desired  depth  before 
replacing  the  planks.  It  was  a  cloudy  morning 
early  in  April,  with  a  cold,  raw  wind  blowing  in 
from  the  lake,  and  the  work,  not  very  fatiguing 
in  itself,  kept  one  comfortably  warm  until  noon. 
We  had  a  free  hour  for  dinner  then,  and  I  simply 
accompanied  the  other  gang-men  to  "  Hotel 
"No.  1,"  where  my  employment  ticket,  issued  by 
the  general  superintendent  of  construction,  pro- 
cured for  me  without  delay  a  meal-and-lodging 
ticket  on  trust. 

A  large,  zinc-lined  trough  half  full  of  water 
stood  against  the  wall  in  an  ante-chamber.  Here 
men  by  the  score  were  washing  their  hands  and 
faces  and  drying  them  near  by  on  roller  towels. 
They  then  passed  singly  through  the  wicket  at 
the  dining-room  door,  where  stood  a  man  who 
punched  each  boarder's  ticket  as  he  entered. 

Long  wooden  tables,  heaped  with  dishes  and 
lined  with  round-bottom  stools,  ran  the  great 
length  of  the  room.  The  men  took  places  in  the 
order  of  their  coming,  until  they  had  filled  one 
table,  when  they  would  begin  upon  another,  and 
there  arose  a  deafening  clatter  of  knives  and 
forks  and  dishes  and  a  tumult  of  mingled  speech. 


254  THE  WORKERS 

That  dinner  serves  as  a  good  illustration  of  our 
fare,  both  in  what  it  offered  and  in  what  it 
lacked.  A  bowl  of  hot  soup  was  at  each  man's 
place  when  he  sat  down,  and,  after  finishing  this, 
he  was  given  a  choice  between  roast  beef  and 
Irish  stew.  There  were  potatoes  boiled  in  their 
jackets,  and  pork-and-beans,  and  bread  in  wide 
variety  and  in  enormous  quantity,  and  a  choice 
of  tea  or  coffee,  and  finally  a  pudding  for  dessert. 
Some  of  this  was  good,  but  all  of  it  smacked  of 
wholesale  preparation,  and  appetites  nicer  than 
those  of  workingmen  would  have  found  difficul- 
ties with  the  dinner.  Even  ours  were  not  proof 
against  it  all.  I  was  struggling  with  a  slice  of 
tough  roast-beef  out  of  which  the  virtue  had  been 
cooked,  when  suddenly  I  caught  an  expression  of 
comical  dismay  stealing  over  the  ruddy,  bristling 
face  of  the  man  opposite  me.  He  was  eating  a 
piece  of  meat  from  a  plate  of  Irish  stew,  and  he 
spat  it  out  upon  the  floor  with  a  deep-drawn  oath, 
and  a  frank  assurance  to  his  neighbors  that  "  the 
meat  was  rotten,"  while  his  facial  muscles  were 
contorted  with  strong  disgust.  And  the  pudding 
was  of  such  uncertain  nature  as  to  recall  vividly 
the  oft-repeated  saying  of  a  classmate  at  a  college 
eating-club,  that  "  flies  in  a  pudding  are  quite  as 
good  as  currants."  Still  the  pork-and-beans  were 
excellent  and  the  bread  and  potatoes  fine,  and 


A   ROAD   BUILDER  255 

the  coffee,  which  was  served  in  large  cups  with 
the  roast,  was  not  impossible;  certainly  it  was 
a  well-fed  crowd  which  sat  smoking  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  or  more  on  the  rough  embankments 
overlooking  the  Agricultural  Building  before 
going  back  to  work. 

Our  gang  was  divided  in  the  afternoon,  and 
Mr.  O'Shea  left  three  of  us,  a  German,  an  Irish- 
man, and  me,  to  open  up  a  way  for  the  teamsters 
through  two  long  piles  of  paving-stones,  which 
obstructed  the  road  near  the  Fisheries  Building. 
His  parting  word  to  us  was  that  the  stint  was 
an  afternoon's  job,  and  we  could  easily  have  fin- 
ished it  in  the  four  hours  from  one  o'clock  until 
five,  had  we  worked  with  moderate  swiftness. 

The  German  and  the  Irishman  fell  to  lifting 
stones  to  one  side  of  the  desired  opening  and  I 
to  the  other.  Every  condition  favored  us.  We 
had  a  definite  task  and  not  a  difficult  one,  and  no 
one  to  watch  us  at  our  work,  nor  drive  us  in  its 
doing.  The  clouds  had  disappeared,  and  in  the 
soft  spring  sunshine,  with  the  bushes  blossoming 
about  us  and  the  air  full  of  the  sounds  of  multi- 
form labor,  there  was  every  stimulus  to  energetic 
effort  for  four  hours.  Not  that  the  hours  seemed 
short — they  never  do,  I  am  convinced,  even  to 
well-seasoned  unskilled  workmen — but  the  dif- 
ference between  four  hours  of  manual  labor  at  a 


256  THE   WORKERS 

stretch  and  five  is  enormous,  and  to  see  my  con- 
freres quite  as  impatient  of  their  flight,  even 
under  these  most  favoring  conditions,  and  to 
mark  that  the  sober  business  of  their  lives  was 
still  an  abhorrent  drudgery  to  be  shirked  if  pos- 
sible, led  the  way  to  very  sad  reflection. 

Neither  of  them  paid  any  attention  to  me  un- 
til, late  in  the  afternoon,  there  came  a  lull  in 
their  talk  and  I  heard  the  Irishman's  call. 

"Hey,  John!" 

"Hello,"  I  said. 

"  Was  you  going  to  shave  off  them  whiskers 
for  Easter? " 

I  told  him  that  I  had  not  thought  of  it. 

"  "Well,"  he  went  on,  "  I  hear  the  boys  as  have 
whiskers  say  as  how  they  must  go  on  Easter 
morning,  and  I  thought  maybe  it  was  the  same 
wid  you." 

"  What  are  you  after  doing,  getting  yourself 
into  a  sweat? "  he  continued,  for  he  had  drawn 
off  from  the  German  and  was  making  my  way. 
"  You  be  a  fool  to  kill  yourself ;  you  don't  earn 
the  more  by  it,  and  they  don't  think  any  the  bet- 
ter of  you.  Take  it  easy,  man,  take  it  easy; 
there's  time  enough." 

He  was  an  authority  on  the  time,  for  every 
few  minutes  he  would  walk  slowly  over  to  where 
his  coat  and  waistcoat  lay  on  a  heap  of  stones, 


A  ROAD  BUILDER  257 

and  drawing  out  a  great  silver  watch,  would  crit- 
ically examine  it,  and  then  announce  the  hour 
in  a  loud  call  to  the  German  and  me.  At  a  quar- 
ter to  five  the  two  picked  up  their  coats  and  went 
off,  dodging  behind  shrubs  and  piles  of  building 
materials,  until  they  made  their  exit  at  the  gate, 
leaving  a  good  third  of  the  job  unfinished. 

That  was  on  a  Saturday.  On  Monday  morn- 
ing Mr.  O'Shea  singled  out  us  three  for  as  stiff 
a  cursing  as  a  boat's  crew  often  gets,  but  to  little 
purpose,  apparently,  in  its  effect  upon  the  other 
men.  On  that  very  day  I  was  again  a  member 
of  a  gang,  a  gang  of  four  this  time,  which  was 
left  without  an  overseer.  We  were  ordered  to 
unload  a  car  of  timber  and  pile  the  boards  near 
the  mammoth  framework  on  the  east  side  of  the 
Manufactures  Building.  Besides  native  inertia 
there  was  unusual  cause  for  idling  in  the  fact 
that  one  of  our  number,  a  young  Englishman, 
Rosedale  by  name,  proved  to  be  uncommonly  in- 
teresting. He  was  rather  a  trim  fellow,  of  the 
adventurous,  jack-of-all-trades  kind,  that  roam 
the  world  widely,  and  that  always  appear  in 
numbers  at  great  celebrations  and  in  new  re- 
gions. How  they  live  and  secure  the  means  of 
extensive  travel  is  a  secret  which  no  member  of 
the  fraternity  ever  tells.  There  was  no  mystery 

about  Rosedale  just  then,  for  he  was  a  fellow- 
17 


THE   WORKERS 

lodger  in  Hotel  No.  1,  and  was  No.  —  in  the 
gang  of  laborers  in  which  I,  for  example,  was 
No.  472,  and  he  fell  into  as  natural  association 
with  the  men  as  though  he  had  lived  with  us 
always. 

He  was  just  up  from  South  Africa,  where  he 
had  been  in  the  diamond  fields,  he  said.  Seven- 
teen thousand  dollars'  worth  of  diamonds  was 
the  loot  he  was  bringing  with  him  to  Canada, 
when  he  was  shipwrecked  off  the  coast  of  Labra- 
dor and  escaped  with  only  his  life.  Not  one  of 
us,  I  suppose,  was  anything  but  sceptical  of 
much  of  Rosedale's  story,  but  the  man  told  his 
tale  of  free,  reckless,  vicious  living  on  the  dia- 
mond fields,  with  a  vividness  of  narrative  and  a 
rough  wealth  of  local  color  that  charmed  us  into 
most  attentive  listeners,  and  that  sped  the  morn- 
ing hours  with  little  regard  to  our  job.  Ques- 
tions began  to  crowd  in  upon  Rosedale  as  to  the 
location  of  South  Africa  and  the  means  of  get- 
ting there,  and  great  disappointment  was  evi- 
dent in  the  discovery  that  it  was  not  contiguous 
to  any  familiar  point. 

Noon  found  us  with  a  pitiful  showing  for  the 
morning's  work.  In  the  afternoon  I  secured  the 
post  inside  the  car,  and  passed  the  boards  out  to 
the  three  other  men,  who  piled  them  near  the 
building.  By  hastening  the  work  at  that  end, 


A   ROAD  BUILDER  259 

I  hoped  to  quicken  the  pace  at  which  the  job  was 
being  done.  To  be  caught  a  second  time  in  a 
delinquent  gang  I  feared  would  endanger  my 
position,  and  I  was  anxious  to  remain  on  the 
grounds,  and  even  more  anxious  to  secure  a  pro- 
motion if  I  could.  It  was  easy  to  keep  ahead  of 
the  men,  but  it  was  impossible,  apparently,  to 
urge  them  beyond  the  languid  deliberation  with 
which  they  shouldered  the  timber  and  carried  it 
to  the  piles. 

"  Let  up  on  that,  John,"  they  were  shouting  at 
me  presently.  "  Go  easy  with  that;  there  ain't 
no  rush,  and  you'll  make  nothing  by  your  pains." 

It  was  the  view  which  I  had  heard  again  and 
again  in  gangs  of  unskilled  laborers.  One  could 
understand  it  in  a  measure  among  the  older  men, 
who  could  hope  at  the  best  only  to  eke  out  an 
existence  free  from  the  poor-house  to  the  end. 
But  these  and  many  others  from  whom  it  came 
were  relatively  young  men,  with  every  chance, 
one  would  suppose,  of  winning  some  preferment 
through  effective,  energetic  work. 

At  five  o'clock,  the  end  of  the  afternoon's 
labor,  we  had  an  hour  in  which  to  make  leisurely 
preparation  for  a  supper  which  consisted  of  cold 
meats  in  unstinted  plenty,  and  potatoes,  and 
bread,  and  tea  and  coffee,  and  often  some  stewed 
fruit  with  a  little  cake.  After  this  most  of  the 


260  THE   WORKERS 

men  loafed  in  the  lobby  until  bedtime.  This 
sitting-room  includes  the  entire  upper  floor  of  a 
large  wing  of  the  building.  An  enormous  base- 
burner  heats  it,  and  serves  to  render  it  stifling 
in  the  evening,  when  the  men  are  smoking  with 
every  window  closed.  Games  and  newspapers 
strew  the  tables,  and  the  room,  is  well  lighted 
with  electric  lamps. 

On  the  same  level  is  the  upper  section  of  the 
main  building,  where  are  the  sleeping-quarters 
for  the  men.  The  provision  here  is  similar  in 
design  to  that  of  a  cheap  lodging-house;  only 
this  is  almost  immaculate  in  its  cleanliness,  and 
the  cabins  are  large  and  well  ventilated,  and  the 
ceilings  high  and  airy,  and  the  berths  are  sup- 
plied with  new  wire  and  clean  corn-husk  mat- 
tresses, and  with  sheets  and  pillow-cases  fragrant 
from  the  wash. 

Mine  is  a  middle,  lower  berth  in  a  cabin  for 
six  men,  but  it  lodges  at  present  only  two  be- 
sides myself. 

In  a  bunk  nearest  the  door  sleeps  an  Irishman, 
whose  acquaintance  I  made  while  getting  ready 
for  bed  on  the  first  night  of  my  stay.  Opening 
the  door  that  evening  and  seeing  me  seated  in 
the  middle  bunk,  he  stood  eyeing  me  for  a  time 
with  obvious  displeasure.  He  was  evidently  not 
in  the  best  of  humors,  and  although  but  two  of 


A  ROAD  BUILDER  261 

• 

the  six  berths  in  the  large  cabin  were  occupied, 
he  plainly  regarded  my  coming  as  an  intrusion. 
Neatly  dressed  in  dark  blue,  and  with  an  old  felt 
hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  he  cut  a  fine  figure 
of  a  workman  as  he  stood  in  the  open  door,  a  man 
of  five-and-thirty,  with  a  massive  frame  bent 
slightly  forward  and  with  a  frown  wrinkling  the 
low  forehead,  from  which  the  thick  hair  grew 
in  tawny  masses. 

"  Who  let  you  in  here?  "  was  his  first  remark. 

"  The  proprietor,"  I  answered. 

"  Did  he  say  you  could  have  that  bunk?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  it,  is  he  going  to  flood  the 

place?" 

I  knew  no  answer  to  that  question,  and  so  I 
ventured  to  ask  after  the  occupant  of  the  bunk 
nearest  the  window. 

"  He's  an  Englishman;  works  in  the  land- 
scape gang  wid  me,"  replied  the  Irishman,  lacon- 
ically. 

By  this  time  he  had  seated  himself  on  his  bed 
with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  head  bowed 
with  an  air  of  weariness.  The  change  of  subject 
had,  fortunately,  been  effective,  for  he  no  longer 
objected  to  my  presence,  and  for  some  time  he 
sat  talking  freely  in  a  droning,  disjointed  way. 

I  gathered  that  he  was  thoroughly  dissatisfied 


262  THE   WORKERS 

* 

with  his  work  and  wages  and  his  boarding-place 
and  with  life  in  general.  He  did  not  enter  into 
details  of  his  personal  history;  his  mood  spent 
itself  in  anathemas  against  his  present  lot: 
"  Work,  ceaseless,  unprofitable,  joyless  work. 
Eat  and  work;  eat  more  and  work;  eat  again 
and  sleep  and  eat  and  work.  This  and  nothing 
more;  body  and  soul  sold  at  a  dollar  and  a  half 
a  day.  And  nothing  else  to  look  forward  to, 
with  chances  only  of  a  steadily  hardening  lot, 
throughout  the  on-coming  of  old  age  to  death." 

I  had  never  heard  a  workman  in  pessimistic 
mood  so  coherent,  and  I  felt  sure  that  the  Irish- 
man was  ill;  for  commonly  with  our  class,  a  full 
meal  and  a  pipeful  at  the  end  of  a  day's  labor 
are  enough  to  banish  care  and  to  tinge  living 
with  a  glow  of  satisfaction.  The  suspicion  proved 
true  enough,  for  the  man  soon  began  to  shake 
with  a  malarial  chill  in  our  cheerless  barrack,  and 
he  told  me  that  the  ague  laid  hold  of  him  regu- 
larly on  alternate  days. 

It  was  the  loneliness  of  the  fellow  that  im- 
pressed one  as  he  lay  shivering  in  his  bunk. 
There  were  hundreds  of  men  in  the  house,  but 
not  one  of  them  was  charged  with  any  responsi- 
bility for  him,  and  there  was  no  provision  for 
illness.  On  his  bad  days  he  would  force  himself 
through  the  usual  routine,  but,  when  the  day 


A  KOAD   BUILDER  263 

was  done,  there  was  nothing  for  him  but  to  lie 
in  lonely  misery  in  his  bed.  Not  that  he  whined 
in  the  least.  I  gathered  these  facts  by  inference. 
It  was  the  barrenness  of  his  life  that  he  cursed, 
not  its  hardness,  for  this  he  accepted  as  a  matter 
of  course. 

And  yet  one  could  not  fail  to  see  where  finer 
feeling  inflicted  a  sharper  pain  in  his  suffering. 
I  had  marked  at  once  the  neatness  of  his  dress, 
and  especially  the  cleanliness  of  person  by  which 
one  distinguishes  instantly  between  a  workman 
and  a  tramp. 

There  are  interesting  degrees  of  cleanness  in 
workingmen.  One  sees  it  at  its  best,  I  think, 
among  those  of  the  building  trades.  The  stains 
of  their  labor  are  clean  in  themselves,  and  the 
men  partake  of  the  wholesomeness  of  their  em- 
ployment. The  workers  at  rougher  jobs  must 
show  the  marks  of  soiling  labor,  but  there  is  in- 
finite difference  between  the  earth  stains  of  a 
common  laborer  and  the  ingrained,  begrimed  un- 
cleanness  of  an  unwashed  vagrant.  Having  in 
the  house,  however,  so  many  men,  and  just  at  the 
end  of  the  long  period  of  unemployment,  it  is 
inevitable,  perhaps,  that  there  should  be  a  few 
of  the  number  whose  status  as  between  work- 
ingmen and  tramps  is  not  clearly  defined.  And 
some  of  the  consequences  are  unpleasant. 


264  THE   WORKERS 

It  was  this  that  the  Irishman  had  in  mind  as 
he  looked  me  over  critically  and  was  somewhat 
slow  in  welcoming  me  to  the  cabin. 

The  same  concern  showed  itself  again  when 
he  presently  told  me  that  the  Englishman  and 
he  always  made  up  their  berths  themselves,  in- 
stead of  leaving  them  for  the  regular  bed-mak- 
ers, who  might  communicate  vermin  from  other 
bunks.  The  hint  was  sufficient,  and  I  hastened 
to  set  his  mind  at  rest  by  assuring  him  that  I 
heartily  endorsed  the  plan  and  would  follow  it 
faithfully. 

The  Englishman  I  did  not  see  until  the  next 
morning.  Upon  getting  up  to  the  six-o'clock  call, 
I  found  that  he  had  turned  in  without  waking 
me.  We  sprang  out  of  bed  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, and  almost  at  a  glance  I  knew  him  for  the 
ex-Tommy  Atkins  that  he  is.  I  shall  call  him 
Brown.  A  wooden  chest,  studded  with  brass 
nails  and  made  fast  with  a  heavy  padlock,  stood 
near  the  foot  of  his  berth.  On  it  lay  his  working 
clothes,  not  thrown  down  in  confusion,  but  neat- 
ly folded  and  lying  in  the  order  of  dress.  He 
himself  was  as  trim  and  straight  and  as  clean  as 
a  sapling,  and  when  he  returned  from  his  wash 
he  fairly  sparkled  with  the  afterglow.  Back 
went  the  sheets  with  a  single  movement  of  his 
hand  the  moment  that  he  was  dressed,  and  over 


A   KOAD  BUILDER  265 

went  the  mattress,  and  the  pillows  began  rollick- 
ing in  the  shaking  which  he  gave  them.  In  mar- 
vellously short  time  the  bed  was  remade  and  the 
sheets  turned  back  over  the  foot  of  the  bunk  to 
admit  of  proper  airing. 

We  have  been  thrown  together  by  reason  of 
the  fact  that  neither  of  us  is  proof  against  the 
lobby  for  long  in  the  evening.  It  is  usually  dark 
by  the  time  I  have  finished  supper,  and  I  go  first 
of  all  to  the  sitting-room.  It  is  ablaze  with  light, 
and  the  huge  stove  is  going  under  full  head  and 
all  the  windows  are  closed  and  some  scores  of 
men  are  smoking  old  pipes.  I  have  known  nights 
when  such  a  place  would  have  been  a  most  wel- 
come escape  from  exposure,  but  having  now  a 
choice  it  is  never  long  before  I  leave  the  lobby 
for  the  cabin.  Here  I  generally  find  Brown 
seated  on  the  box  at  the  foot  of  his  berth,  play- 
ing an  old  fife  which  is  singularly  pliant  to  his 
touch.  Throwing  myself  in  my  bunk  I  have  lain 
there  by  the  hour  together  listening  to  his  music 
and  watching  him  as  he  beat  time  to  the  "  British 
Grenadiers  "  and  the  "  Blue  Bells  of  Scotland," 
and  to  tunes  of  no  end  of  barrack-room  ballads, 
wondering  the  while  what  vision  it  was  of  India 
or  of  Burmah,  perhaps,  or  of  the  Soudan,  or  pos- 
sibly of  the  Afghan  frontier  that  brought  that 
look  of  longing  to  his  eyes. 


266  THE   WORKERS 

He  is  the  soul  of  soldier-like  precision;  he 
never  misses  a  day  at  work  except  the  one  which 
immediately  follows  pay-day,  and  that  because 
he  never  misses  his  spree.  The  Irishman  and  I 
have  come  to  count  with  perfect  regularity  upon 
Brown's  not  turning  up  on  the  evening  when  he 
is  paid.  About  three  or  four  o'clock  on  the  next 
morning  we  hear  him  open  the  cabin  door  softly, 
and,  supporting  himself  with  a  hand  on  the  up- 
per berths,  move  slowly  across  the  floor  until  he 
has  reached  his  bed,  where  he  throws  himself 
on  his  face  as  he  is  and  sleeps  for  twenty-four 
hours. 

I  was  not  long  a  member  of  Mr.  O'Shea's 
gang,  for  at  the  end  of  the  first  week  another 
laborer  and  I  were  singled  out  for  special  duty 
on  the  roads.  But  on  Wednesday  afternoon  of 
that  week  two  men  joined  the  force  of  unskilled 
laborers  who  filled  us  all  with  curious  interest. 
There  is  another  gang  of  about  the  same  number 
as  Mr.  O'Shea's,  with  which  we  are  often  thrown 
in  our  work  and  which  is  under  the  command 
of  a  Mr.  Russell. 

At  one  o'clock  on  Wednesday  afternoon  I 
went  as  usual  to  report  with  the  other  men  at  the 
superintendent's  office  where  we  receive  our  or- 
ders. Mr.  Dutton,  the  superintendent,  always 
comes  out  and  looks  us  over  and  consults  for  a 


A   KOAD   BUILDER  267 

few  minutes  with  the  sub-bosses,  and  then  orders 
the  various  gangs  to  different  sections  of  the 
grounds. 

Two  young  men  were  standing  near  his  office- 
door  on  that  Wednesday  afternoon  when  I  came 
up  at  a  few  minutes  before  one.  I  did  not  give 
them  a  second  glance  at  first,  for  I  took  for  grant- 
ed that  they  were  tourists  who  had  entered  the 
grounds  by  special  permission  and  were  now 
waiting  for  a  guide.  But  in  another  moment 
I  happened  to  see  Mr.  Button's  clerk  beckon 
them  within  the  office  where  he  took  their  names 
and  gave  to  each  a  metallic  disk  upon  which  a 
number  was  stamped.  Then  they  came  out 
again  and,  taking  off  their  coats,  stepped  in 
among  the  gathering  company  of  workmen  and 
waited  to  be  assigned. 

By  this  time  we  were  all  staring  at  them  agape, 
but  they  stood  the  ordeal  with  a  frank  uncon- 
sciousness which  filled  me  with  admiration. 
They  were  about  of  age,  two  clean-cut,  well- 
groomed,  clear-eyed  English  boys,  who  looked 
as  though  they  might  be  public-school  bred,  and 
I  noticed  that  their  coats  bore  the  name  of  a 
London  tailor.  One,  a  brown-haired  lad,  with 
large,  sober,  brown  eyes  and  a  manner  of  con- 
siderable reserve,  was  exceedingly  good-looking, 
and  the  other,  a  fair-haired,  fair-skinned,  alert- 


268  THE   WORKERS 

looking  boy,  plainly  the  spokesman  for  the  two, 
had  a  face  of  unusually  fine  drawing. 

Mr.  Dutton  hesitated  a  moment  in  their  case, 
but  finally  ordered  them  to  join  Mr.  Russell's 
gang,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  widely  sep- 
arated. Repeatedly  in  the  early  afternoon  I 
found  myself  thinking  about  them  and  wonder- 
ing why  it  was  that  they  must  earn  their  bread 
by  unskilled  labor.  Two  hours  of  the  afternoon 
remained  when  there  came  an  order  from  Mr. 
Dutton  to  our  gang  to  repair  to  the  Transporta- 
tion Building.  We  found,  upon  getting  there, 
that  we  had  been  summoned  to  reinforce  Mr. 
Russell's  men,  who  were  unloading  from  a  car 
two  large  steam-rollers.  Again  I  saw  the  young 
Englishmen,  and  I  had  a  chance  to  watch  them 
at  work. 

By  this  time  the  gangmen  had  sated  their 
curiosity  in  staring,  and  now  ignored  the  lads 
as  being  anything  but  laborers  with  themselves, 
which  was  much  the  best-bred  thing  that  they 
could  have  done. 

As  a  preliminary  to  unloading,  we  had  to 
carry  to  the  car  some  heavy  wooden  blocks  to 
serve  as  supports  to  an  inclined  plane  by  which 
the  machines  could  be  slid  to  the  ground.  It 
sometimes  required  four  and  even  six  men  to- 
gether to  lift  these  blocks,  and  repeatedly  I 


A  EOAD   BUILDER  269 

found  myself  next  in  line  to  the  new-comers. 
Their  linen  collars  were  wilting  with  the  sweat 
of  labor,  and  it  had  apparently  not  occurred  to 
them  to  take  them  off.  Their  shirts,  of  delicate 
color,  were  turned  up  above  their  elbows  with 
gold  link-buttons  dangling  from  the  cuffs.  The 
rough  wood  was  fretting  their  bare  white  arms 
cruelly.  I  had  a  chance  presently  to  speak  to 
one  of  them,  and  I  showed  him  how  he  could  get 
a  hold  which  would  not  be  so  chafing.  In  a  mo- 
ment of  leisure  he  came  up  and  thanked  me 
frankly,  and  volunteered  the  information  that 
his  friend  and  he  were  but  a  week  over  from 
England  and,  having  failed  utterly  to  find  other 
work  in  Chicago  where  they  had  supposed  that 
employment  was  plentiful,  they  were  glad 
enough  in  an  extremity  to  accept  this  means  of 
living. 

Most  pluckily  have  they  stuck  at  it.  I  have 
never  again  been  associated  with  them  in  a  job, 
but  I  see  them  almost  every  day,  and  through 
rain  and  shine  they  have  been  the  steadiest  mem- 
bers of  their  gang.  Places  better  suited  to  them 
will  be  found,  no  doubt,  as  the  general  work 
progresses;  and  that  will  not  be  long,  I  hope, 
for  just  now  the  boys  are  at  a  considerable  dis- 
advantage. It  was  only  two  or  three  mornings 
ago  that  I  happened  to  meet  them  again  near 


270  THE   WORKERS 

Mr.  Button's  office,  where  they  had  been  sent 
to  fetch  some  tools.  The  fairer  boy  wore  a  band- 
age which  covered  his  left  forearm  and  most 
of  the  hand.  I  asked  him  what  had  happened, 
and  he  explained  to  me  how  that  in  handling 
some  old  sleepers  he  had  missed  his  hold  in  one 
case,  and,  with  the  fall  of  the  heavy  timber,  a 
rusty  iron  nail  tore  down  through  his  arm  and 
the  palm  of  his  hand,  leaving  a  ragged  wound 
open  nearly  to  the  bone.  He  had  had  it  dressed 
promptly  by  a  good  surgeon,  who  reassured  him 
as  to  danger  of  complications.  But  it  had  taken 
all  his  companion's  savings  and  his  own  to  pay 
the  original  fee,  and  they  were  in  arrears  for  the 
daily  dressing.  Luckily,  however,  he  was  still 
able  to  work,  and  Mr.  Russell  kept  him  em- 
ployed, he  told  me,  in  ways  which  brought  his 
injured  arm  very  little  into  play. 

Those  of  us  who  belong  permanently  to  gangs 
such  as  Mr.  O' Shea's  and  Mr.  Eussell's  are 
known  as  "  regulars,"  to  distinguish  us  from  the 
hands  who  are  taken  on,  a  day  at  a  time,  for 
some  particular  need.  Quite  the  most  efficient 
"  regular  "  in  my  gang  is  a  certain  Henry  Jerk- 
ener,  who  is  that  rare  exception,  so  far  as  my  ex- 
perience goes,  a  native  American  in  a  company 
of  unskilled  laborers.  "  Harry,"  as  he  is  called, 
and  I  were  early  assigned  to  special  duty.  Mr. 


A  ROAD   BUILDER  271 

Button  beckoned  us  aside  one  afternoon  and  or- 
dered us  to  report  to  him  at  ten  o'clock  the  next 
morning,  telling  us  that  our  day,  beginning 
henceforth  at  ten,  would  last  until  seven  in  the 
evening  instead  of  five  o'clock.  And  our 
wages  would  be  raised  from  $1.50  to  $1.75  a 
day. 

Our  work  was  to  be  the  general  care  of  all  the 
plank  roads  on  the  grounds.  They  had  been  put 
in  fairly  good  condition,  but  they  received  hard 
usage,  and  constant  repairs  were  necessary.  We 
were,  therefore,  to  give  our  attention,  up  to  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  to  particular  sections 
of  the  road  which  were  most  in  need  of  mending, 
and  after  five,  when  the  work  for  the  day  had 
ceased,  our  duty  was  to  go  over  all  the  roads  and 
see  that  they  were  in  condition  for  the  beginning 
of  the  carting  in  the  morning. 

Harry  appeared  delighted  with  the  arrange- 
ment. Not  that  he  took  any  special  stock  in  me 
as  an  assistant,  but  because,  however  indifferent 
a  workman,  at  least  I  was  an  American,  and  he 
would  be  free  of  the  gang  of  Irish  regulars  and 
himself  in  charge  of  the  work,  instead  of  being 
under  the  orders  of  Mr.  O'Shea. 

Harry's  good-humor  is  proof  against  anything, 
apparently,  his  temperament  being  that  of  a 
sunny  May  morning.  But  if  there  is  anything 


272  THE  WORKERS 

which  bores  him,  it  is  to  be  ordered  about  by  an 
Irish  sub-boss. 

I  did  not  discover  this  until  after  we  had  left 
the  gang.  So  long  as  he  was  one  of  their  num- 
ber he  was  the  life  of  the  crew,  jolly,  high-spir- 
ited, with  a  ready  flow  of  banter  that  was  never 
delicate  and  never  ill-tempered,  always  foremost 
in  the  work,  having  at  command  a  fund  of  re- 
sourceful ingenuity  which  made  him  the  real 
leader  and  director  of  the  men  while  the  boss 
looked  on  in  silence.  But  after  we  had  been  as- 
signed to  special  duty  he  bloomed  into  new  jol- 
lity, which  is  at  its  best  whenever  in  our  work 
we  heave  in  sight  of  the  old  gang.  It  is  deli- 
ciously  funny  at  such  times  to  watch  Harry. 
The  men  are  probably  fretting  and  straining 
over  some  heavy  lifting  or  other  difficult  task. 
He  first  lets  fly  some  irritating  raillery  in  which 
he  addresses  them  as  "  terriers;  "  and  then,  tak- 
ing up  a  position  within  ear-shot,  he  begins  to 
sing  with  a  capital  Irish  brogue: 

"  Oh,  ye  work  all  day  for  Paddy  O'Shea, 
Dhrrrill,  ye  terriers,  dhrrrill !  " 

Human  nature  cannot  endure  this  for  long,  and 
presently  a  shower  of  sticks  and  tufts  of  turf 
drive  Harry  from  his  position  and  put  an  end  for 
the  time  to  his  song. 


A   ROAD   BUILDER  273 

Our  place  is  by  no  means  a  sinecure.  The 
roads  are  constantly  falling  into  unrepair  and  a 
deal  of  hard  work  is  necessary  to  keep  them  in 
order.  Pick  and  shovel  work,  that  most  heart- 
breaking of  manual  toil  so  far  as  my  experience 
goes,  is  mostly  in  demand,  for  the  old  trenches 
must  be  kept  open  and  new  ones  dug,  and  some- 
times the  sides  of  long  sections  of  the  road  must 
be  buried  under  a  layer  of  earth  to  prevent  the 
bare  planks  from  warping  in  the  sun.  After  six 
hours  of  such  labor  there  remain  two  in  the 
early  evening  in  which  we  go  over  every  foot 
of  roadway  on  the  grounds  and  make  whatever 
immediate  repairs  are  necessary.  At  seven 
o'clock,  Harry  reports  to  the  fire  department, 
and  then  we  are  free. 

It  is  not  altogether  easy  to  account  for  Harry 
as  a  common  laborer.  A  well-set-up,  muscular 
American  of  about  fifty,  with  a  singularly  intel- 
ligent, shrewd  face  and  the  merriest  of  blue  eyes, 
he  might  be,  from  his  appearance,  a  well-to-do 
contractor.  Only  once  with  me  has  he  touched 
upon  the  general  subject  of  his  past,  and  then  he 
intimate'd  that  formerly  he  was  well  off,  but  that 
in  his  business  relations  he  had  always  passed  as 
a  "  good  fellow."  "  And  that  means,  you  know," 
he  said,  turning  upon  me  with  a  significant  look, 
"  that  means  a  '  damn  fool! ' 
.  18 


274  THE  WORKERS 

Among  the  workmen  on  the  grounds  whom  I 
have  come  to  know,  none  has  interested  me  more 
as  a  type  than  an  American  carpenter  with  whom 
I  sometimes  spend  an  evening.  The  man  is 
lonely  and  uncomfortable  in  his  new  surround- 
ings. The  novel  conditions  which  here  beset  him 
as  a  workingman  are  quite  as  disturbing  to  him 
as  the  unfamiliar  setting  of  his  daily  life.  He 
clings  tenaciously  to  his  individuality,  and  the 
new  order  of  things  which  confronts  him  here 
lightly  makes  strange  havoc  of  all  that. 

We  had  not  been  talking  many  minutes  on  the 
embankment,  where  one  day  after  dinner  we 
first  met,  when  the  man's  case  shone  clear  as  day. 
He  is  a  master-carpenter  from  a  village  home  in 
Ohio,  and  the  certainty  of  steady  work  for  many 
months  at  four  dollars  a  day  was  tempting 
enough  to  induce  him  to  leave  his  family  behind 
and  come  here.  He  had  arrived  a  few  days  be- 
fore and  had  found  instant  employment. 

Seeing  the  man,  a  tall,  fine-looking,  self-re- 
specting American  mechanic,  and  hearing  him 
speak,  and  learning  even  this  little  of  his  his- 
tory, you  had  direct  vision  of  his  past.  You 
could  almost  see  a  comfortable,  wooden  cottage, 
of  his  own  building,  with  a  garden-plot  about  it 
and  flower-beds  in  front,  standing  on  a  well- 
shaded  village  street.  He  owns  the  cottage  and 


A  EOAD  BUILDER  275 

the  plot  of  land,  and  his  children  were  born  there, 
and  he  is  an  officer  in  the  village  church,  and  has 
been  justice  of  the  peace,  and  more  than  once 
has  served  as  "  school  trustee."  Social  inequal- 
ity, as  applying  to  himself,  is  a  new  idea,  and  it 
gives  him  a  hitherto  unexperienced  sense  of  self- 
consciousness.  In  his  native  village  his  family 
meet  the  families  of  all  his  neighbors  on  the  same 
footing,  except  that  they  recognize  in  the  min- 
ister, and  the  doctor,  and  the  village  lawyer,  and 
the  school-master,  a  distinction  which  attaches  to 
special  education.  His  children  study  and  play 
at  school  with  the  children  of  all  his  neighbors, 
and  mingle  freely  with  them  at  church  and  in 
their  other  social  relations. 

But  here  is  something  new  and  strange.  He 
is  no  longer  a  man  with  a  name  to  distinguish 
him,  but  has  become  a  "  hand,"  having  a  num- 
ber which  he  wears  conspicuous  on  his  jacket. 
He  goes  to  his  work  as  an  integer  in  an  army  of 
ten  thousand  numerals.  Home  has  changed  to 
a  barrack,  where  he,  a  number,  sleeps  in  a  num- 
bered bunk,  and  eats,  never  twice  at  the  same 
place,  as  one  of  half  a  thousand  men.  His  com- 
fort and  convenience  are  never  consulted,  and 
his  views  have  no  smallest  bearing  upon  the 
course  of  things.  The  superintendent  of  the 
building  upon  which  he  works,  whose  energy 


276  THE  WORKERS 

and  skill  he  admires  hugely,  shifts  him  about 
with  scores  of  other  men,  with  as  little  regard 
to  him  as  an  individual  as  though  he  were  a 
piece  of  timber.  Once  he  spoke  to  his  super- 
intendent about  some  detail  of  the  work  and 
found  him  a  most  appreciative  listener.  Then 
he  ventured,  in  conversation,  upon  a  subject  of 
general  interest,  only  to  find  that  by  some  mys- 
terious change  he  was  speaking  to  a  stone  wall. 

And  now  there  confronts  him  what  he  regards 
as  another  sacrifice  of  individuality,  which  he  is 
urged  to  make,  and  which  gives  him  no  little  con- 
cern. He  had  scarcely  known  of  the  existence 
of  Trades  Unions,  and  now  he  is  thronged  with 
appeals  to  join  one. 

No  discrimination  is  made  by  the  manage- 
ment as  between  union  and  non-union  men  in 
employing  workers  on  the  Exposition ;  but  many 
of  the  union  men  here  are  making  the  most  of 
the  present  opportunity  for  the  propaganda  of 
their  principles,  and  for  bringing  the  desirable 
non-union  men  within  their  organization.  My 
carpenter  friend,  whom  I  shall  call  Mr.  Ford, 
comes  in  for  a  large  share  of  attention,  and  is, 
as  I  have  intimated,  not  a  little  perplexed  by  the 
situation. 

Two  or  three  times  he  has  asked  me  to  go 
with  him  in  the  evening  to  meetings  which  are 


A  ROAD  BUILDER  277 

held  near  the  Fair  Grounds,  and  which  are  ad- 
dressed by  delegates  from  the  Central  Labor 
Union.  These  we  have  not  found  very  enlight- 
ening. There  has  been  a  good  deal  of  beer- 
drinking  and  much  aimless  speech,  which  has 
grown  heated  at  times  in  the  stress  of  hostile 
discussion;  and  now  and  then  a  plain,  matter- 
of-fact  workingman  has  given  us  an  admirable 
talk  on  the  history  of  Trades-Unionism  and  its 
beneficent  results,  and  the  imperative  need  of 
organization  among  workers  as  the  only  means 
of  safe-guarding  their  interests  and  of  meeting, 
on  any  approach  to  equal  terms,  the  peculiar 
economic  relations  which  exist  between  labor  and 
organized  capital. 

Mr.  Ford,  much  bewildered,  has  listened  to 
all  this,  and  we  have  talked  it  over  together  on 
the  way  back  to  our  lodgings,  and  sometimes 
late  into  the  night.  I  have  tried  to  explain  to 
him,  as  well  as  I  understand  it,  the  idea  of  or- 
ganization, and  the  necessity  of  organization 
which  has  grown  out  of  the  great  industrial 
change  since  the  middle  of  the  last  century.  But 
Mr.  Ford,  for  all  practical  purposes,  belongs  to 
the  pre-revolutionary  period;  the  industrial 
change  has  little  affected  him.  He  served  his 
apprenticeship,  and  was  then  a  journeyman  and 
then  a  master-carpenter  in  due  course.  In  his 


278  THE  WORKERS 

experience,  work  has  always  had  its  basis  in  a 
personal  relation,  as,  for  example,  between  him- 
self as  a  contractor  and  the  man  whose  job  he 
undertook  and  to  whom  he  looked  for  payment. 
A  like  personal  relation  has  always  existed  be- 
tween himself  and  the  men  whom  he  has  em- 
ployed. 

This  new  relation  between  a  workman  and  an 
impersonal,  soulless  corporation  which  hires  him, 
is  one  that  he  does  not  readily  grasp.  And,  for 
the  sake  of  meeting  the  new  relation,  this  "  fus- 
ing all  the  skirts  of  self  "  and  merging  individ- 
uality into  an  organization  which  attempts  to 
regulate  the  hours  of  labor,  and  its  wages,  and 
for  whom  one  shall  work,  and  for  whom  not,  is 
a  thing  abhorrent  to  him. 

"  Why,"  he  said  to  me,  "  I  give  up  my  inde- 
pendence, and  I'm  no  better  than  the  worst  car- 
penter of  the  lot.  We  all  get  union-wages  alike. 
There's  no  incentive  for  a  man  to  do  his  best. 
He  ain't  a  man  any  more,  anyway;  he's  only 
a  part  of  a  machine.  Why,  such  work  as  some 
I  see  done  here,  I'd  be  ashamed  to  do  by  moon- 
light, with  my  eyes  shut.  But  it  don't  make  no 
difference  in  the  union,  you're  all  on  the  same 
level,  as  near  as  I  can  make  out." 

Finally  I  proposed  to  him  that  we  should  go 
together,  on  some  Sunday  afternoon,  to  the  meet- 


A  ROAD  BUILDER  279 

ing  of  the  Central  Labor  Union,  where  he  could 
become  acquainted  with  some  of  the  members 
and  learn  at  first  hand  the  objects  and  ends  of 
organization  and  something  of  its  actual  work- 
ing. The  members  whom  I  particularly  wished 
him  to  know  were  some  of  the  Socialists  there, 
who  seemed  to  me  to  have  a  considerable  knowl- 
edge of  Trades-Unionism,  and  who  took,  I 
thought,  a  judicial  view  of  it. 

As  an  unskilled  laborer  I  was  not  eligible  to 
membership  in  any  union,  but  I  was  admitted 
freely  to  the  central  meetings,  to  which  I  some- 
times went  in  company  with  Socialists  who  were 
delegates  of  their  respective  orders.  Under  their 
tutelage,  I  was  shown  the  operation  of  an  ex- 
ceedingly complex  system,  which,  seen  without 
guidance,  would  have  appeared  to  me  hopelessly 
chaotic.  I  was  seeing  it,  I  realized,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  Socialists,  and  I  was  inter- 
ested immediately  in  learning  their  attitude. 

They  are,  I  found,  most  ardent  supporters  of 
the  principle  of  organization  among  working- 
men.  They  regard  the  fact  of  the  organization 
of  wage-earners  as  among  the  most  significant 
developments  in  the  evolution  of  a  socialistic 
state.  But  they  are  very  impatient  of  the  slow 
rate  of  progress  in  Trades-Unionism.  The  ig- 
norance of  the  great  mass  of  workers  of  how  to 


280  THE   WOKKERS 

further  their  own  interests  is,  to  the  Socialist, 
the  most  discouraging  feature  in  labor-organiza- 
tion. "  Why,"  they  ask,  "  when  we  working 
people  already  have  so  strong  a  nucleus  of  or- 
ganization for  economic  ends,  do  we  not  direct 
it  at  once  into  the  field  of  politics,  and  secure 
immediately,  by  our  overwhelming  numbers,  the 
legislation  which  we  need,  and  so  inaugurate  a 
co-operative  commonwealth? " 

Nowhere  have  the  walking-delegates  and  the 
general  agitators  of  their  class  sincerer  foes 
than  among  the  Socialists  who,  more  than  to  any 
other  active  cause,  attribute  the  comparative  in- 
eif  ectualness  of  unionism  to  the  influence  of  these 
men.  Very  readily  they  believe  them  purchas- 
able, and  that  often  they  are  little  else  than  the 
paid  agents  of  the  capitalists.  Their  great  influ- 
ence over  workingmen  is  used,  the  Socialists 
seem  to  believe,  chiefly  in  their  own  interests  and 
particularly  for  selfish  political  ends. 

This  habit  of  mind  serves  to  illustrate  what 
eventually  appeared  to  me  to  be  highly  charac- 
teristic of  the  general  attitude  of  Socialists.  The 
key  to  their  mental  processes  in  considering 
things  social,  lies,  I  am  quite  sure,  in  the  idea 
of  existing  conditions  as  being  maintained  by  a 
vast  capitalistic  conspiracy.  At  all  events  this 
clew  has  cleared  up  for  me  the  mystery  which 


A  ROAD  BUILDER  281 

at  first  I  found  in  many  of  their  ways  of  think- 
ing. 

However  natural  may  have  been  the  social 
order  in  some  of  its  historic  phases,  they  evi- 
dently regard  it  at  the  present  as  largely  artifi- 
cial. There  is  no  real  vitality,  they  contend,  in 
the  political  issues  upon  which  the  great  national 
parties  are  divided.  The  party  cries  of  "  free 
trade  "  and  "  protection  "  and  the  like,  are  man- 
ufactured by  professional  politicians  who  are  in 
the  employ  of  the  capitalists.  The  purpose  is  to 
divert  the  minds  of  the  working  classes  by  these 
sham  contentions  and  so  keep  them  about  evenly 
divided  politically,  and  thus  prevent  their  coa- 
lescing in  overwhelming  force  in  political  action 
for  their  own  interests.  Nothing  seems  to  anger 
a  Socialist  more  than  the  spectacle  of  working- 
men  roused  to  enthusiasm  by  the  crowds  and 
speeches  and  processions  and  brass  bands  of  the 
usual  political  campaign.  They  see  in  them  then 
only  the  ridiculous  dupes  of  the  capitalists,  who 
have  contributed  to  the  campaign  funds  for  the 
very  purpose  of  thus  befooling  their  employees, 
and  who  look  with  about  equal  indifference  upon 
the  momentary  triumph  of  one  party  or  the  other 
so  long  as  no  labor  party  is  in  the  ascendant. 

However  free  in  the  past  the  play  of  purely 
natural  evolutionary  forces  may  have  been  in 


282  THE  WORKERS 

determining  social  development,  and  however 
free  may  be  their  course  again  in  moulding  a 
future  state,  their  operation  is  checked  for  the 
present  to  the  Socialists'  vision  by  the  active  in- 
tervention of  the  capitalists,  who,  in  some  way, 
have  succeeded  in  effecting  a  social  structure 
which  is  highly  favorable  to  themselves,  and  for 
whose  undisturbed  continuance  they  unscrupu- 
lously employ  all  the  resources  of  wealth  and 
craft  and  dark  conspiracy.  The  idea  appeared 
at  its  plainest,  perhaps,  in  their  more  vindictive 
speeches,  where  the  strong  undercurrent  of  feel- 
ing was — "  There  is  cruel  injustice  and  wrong  in 
society  as  it  is,  and  someone  is  to  blame  for  it, 
and  unhesitatingly  we  charge  the  blame  against 
the  capitalists." 

It  was  with  this  interpretation  in  mind  that  I 
took  Mr.  Ford  with  me  one  afternoon  to  the 
meeting  of  the  Central  Labor  Union.  I  was 
curious  to  see  the  effect  of  the  gathering  upon 
him.  A  child  of  another  age  in  his  experience  of 
certain  economic  relations,  he  was  an  interesting 
phenomenon  in  the  sudden  contact  with  modern 
industrialism. 

When  we  reached  the  building,  in  the  upper 
floor  of  which  in  a  large  hall  are  held  the  weekly 
meetings  of  the  Central  Labor  Union,  numbers 
of  workingmen  in  their  Sunday  clothes  were 


A   ROAD   BUILDER  283 

passing  in  and  out  of  the  neighboring  saloons 
or  loafing  about  the  doors.  The  intersecting 
streets  were  strewn  with  small  handbills,  which 
we  found  covering  the  wide  staircase  leading 
to  the  hall  and  scattered  over  the  seats  and  floor 
of  the  room  itself.  They  were  printed  notices 
instructing  the  members  to  boycott  the  beer  of 
certain  breweries  which  were  accused  of  employ- 
ing non-union  men,  and  also  the  products  of  this 
and  that  manufacturer,  against  whom  similar 
charges  were  made. 

We  were  a  little  early,  but  we  chanced  upon 
a  Socialistic  acquaintance  of  mine,  who  took  us 
in  with  him  and  seated  us  well  to  the  front.  As 
the  members  entered  I  had  a  chance  to  point 
out  to  Mr.  Ford  those  among  them  who  had  been 
pointed  out  to  me  as  the  officers  of  their  various 
unions.  He  was  deeply  interested  from  the  first, 
and  much  impressed  apparently  by  the  size  of 
the  gathering  and  the  enormous  numbers  of  or- 
ganized workers  which  were  represented  there. 

The  stage  of  "  new  business "  was  barely 
reached  that  afternoon  when  matters  were  well 
beyond  the  control  of  the  president.  Motions 
and  amendments  and  questions  of  privilege  and 
points  of  order  were  fast  driving  him  mad,  when 
MI  despair  he  called  upon  a  fellow-member  to 
take  charge  of  the  meeting  and  become  its  tern- 


284  THE   WORKERS 

porary  chairman.  By  this  time  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  confusion;  men  in  many  parts  of  the  hall 
were  clamoring  for  the  floor,  and  trying  to  drown 
one  another's  voices.  But  there  was  immediate 
recognition  of  a  change  of  generalship.  The 
man  who  had  taken  the  chair  was  a  member  of 
a  union  of  musicians,  a  person  of  excellent  ad- 
dress and  well-appearing,  and,  as  it  proved 
eventually,  a  masterly  parliamentarian.  To  re- 
duce to  quiet  an  assembly  so  excited  was  beyond 
his  power,  but  he  did  unravel  the  skein  of  its 
tangled  business,  and  through  all  the  uproar  and 
confusion  he  kept  his  temper  perfectly,  and  se- 
cured some  actual  disposition  of  the  affairs  in 
hand. 

The  intricacies  of  intermingling  interests  there 
represented  were  beyond  measure  bewildering. 
The  Cigarmakers'  Union  had  a  grievance,  which 
its  representatives  insisted  upon  presenting  and 
having  righted  at  once.  But  the  Waiters'  Union 
claimed  an  antecedent  right  to  the  presentation 
of  a  question  with  reference  to  admitting  certain 
men  to  their  organization.  And  the  Bricklayers' 
Union  demanded  an  immediate  investigation  of 
the  account  of  expenditure  for  a  certain  recent 
Union  picnic,  charging  directly,  meanwhile,  a 
flagrant  misappropriation  of  funds. 

Passions  were  running  high.     The  lie  direct 


A   ROAD   BUILDER  285 

was  passed  repeatedly,  and  men  were  all  but 
shaking  fists  in  one  another's  faces.  The  shout- 
ing rose  sometimes  to  such  a  pitch  that  the  chair- 
man's voice  could  not  be  heard.  But  the  passion 
was  that  of  strong  vitality.  The  Union,  to  its 
members,  was  an  intensely  living  thing,  and  its 
issues,  touching  them  so  closely,  most  naturally 
roused  comparatively  untutored  men  to  strong 
emotion. 

I  watched  Mr.  Ford  with  curious  interest.  In- 
stead of  showing  any  impatience  or  disgust  at 
the  show  of  temper  and  the  loud  disorder,  he  sat 
through  the  long  session  deeply,  intently  ab- 
sorbed. Every  question  for  debate,  and  every 
phase  of  discussion,  and  all  the  progress  of  the 
business,  and  the  varying  claims  of  the  many 
organizations,  and  the  widely  differing  person- 
alities of  the  members,  each  won  his  vital  inter- 
est, and,  with  amazing  discrimination,  he  seemed 
to  follow  them  with  intelligent  understanding. 
And  when  there  came  a  report  of  progress  in  a 
strike  among  certain  workers  in  shoe  factories, 
and  a  statement  of  the  causes  of  the  strike  and 
the  measures  which  were  being  taken  to  carry  it 
to  a  successful  issue,  I  could  see  that  he  was  more 
than  ever  roused. 

"  That's  the  most  interesting  meeting  I  ever 
was  to,"  he  said  to  me,  as  we  walked  down  the 


286  THE   WORKERS 

Btreet  together.  "  I  ain't  never  realized  before 
how  mixed  up  things  can  be  when  there's  so 
many  working  people,  and  the  men  that  hire 
them  are  mostly  all  organized  in  big  companies. 
Why,  the  working  people  ain't  got  nothing  else 
they  can  do  but  organize  too,  to  get  their  just 
rights.  They  have  a  pretty  hot  time  in  their 
meetings,  if  that's  a  sample,  but  I  guess  they'll 
know  what  they're  about.  I  guess  I'll  join." 

In  a  very  few  days  I  must  leave  Chicago.  I 
own  to  a  longing  to  go  and  launch  out  upon  the 
great  farming  regions  between  the  Lakes  and 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  which  I  hope  to  cover  in 
my  journey  before  the  autumn  is  far  spent.  I 
have  been  watching  the  coming  of  the  spring  in 
the  Exposition  grounds  and  in  the  charming 
parks  of  the  city  and  along  its  beautiful  boule- 
vards, and  I  feel  its  subtle  drawings  to  the  coun- 
try, to  a  life  once  more  of  labor  in  the  fields.  But 
I  am  very  far  from  being  prepared  to  go.  Some 
little  of  a  phase  of  life  which  in  all  large  centres 
of  population  accompanies  the  swift  industrial 
changes  of  the  present  I  have  seen  here  in  Chi- 
cago, where  it  differs  but  slightly  from  similar 
conditions  in  every  congested  labor  market.  And 
under  the  play  of  the  modern  gregarious  instinct 
there  surely  are  few  centralized  markets  which 


A  ROAD   BUILDEK  287 

are  not  congested.  But  of  the  real  city  as  a  great 
positive  force  and  a  world-wide  commercial  pow- 
er, whose  unfaltering  energies  have  built  a  huge 
metropolis  in  a  generation,  and  are  fast  crowning 
their  labors  with  splendid  achievements  in  edu- 
cation and  in  art,  I  have  been  able  to  see  little, 
and  I  have  given  no  impression  whatever.  This 
much  I  have  seen  on  the  grounds  where  I  am 
now  a  workman:  I  have  watched  something  of 
the  slow  emerging  from  a  scene  of  utter  chaos 
of  a  co-ordinated  scheme  of  landscape-gardening 
and  of  architecture,  which  has  long  passed  the 
experimental  stage,  and  is  unfolding  to  the 
world,  by  a  miracle  of  creative  and  constructive 
genius,  a  real  vision  of  beauty  and  power  and 
grace,  which  certainly  holds  for  the  living  gen- 
eration of  civilized  men  a  promise  of  rich  bless- 
ings. 


FROM  CHICAGO  TO  DENVER 

THE  BARTON  FARM,  FARIBAULT  CODNTT, 
MINNESOTA,  July  6,  1892. 

FOR  a  week  past  I  have  been  Mr.  Barton's 
hired  man,  but  in  the  early  morning  I  must  take 
leave  of  the  family  and  renew  the  long  journey. 
More  than  once  during  the  past  year  I  have 
found  it  hard  to  say  good-by  to  an  employer,  but 
that  is  altogether  apart  from  the  real  sadness  of 
the  present  farewell. 

It  might  have  been  months  ago,  so  strong  has 
my  attachment  to  Mr.  Barton's  family  grown 
and  so  well  do  I  feel  that  I  know  them,  that  Mr. 
Barton  stopped  me  on  the  wayside  as  I  was  leav- 
ing Blue  Earth  City  and  offered  me  work  on  his 
farm.  I  hesitated,  but  finally  agreed  to  accept 
his  offer  for  a  week.  I  am  staggered  now  at  real- 
izing how  near  I  came  to  missing  an  experience 
which  will  always  be  a  cherished  memory  of  my 
life. 

With  utmost  hospitality  I,   a  mere  chance 

workman,  picked  up  on  the  public  highway,  was 
288 


FROM   CHICAGO  TO  DENVER  289 

taken  in  by  the  Bartons  and  made  one  of  them- 
selves; and  during  the  days  since  I  have  shared 
their  life  of  summer  industry  with  hard  work 
for  all  of  us  from  five  in  the  morning  until  night- 
fall, but  healthful,  worth-while  work,  and  with 
it  a  home  most  daintily  neat,  and  having  an  at- 
mosphere of  true  refinement  and  of  simple,  gen- 
uine religion. 

My  pain  at  leaving  is  precisely  that  which  one 
feels  in  the  farewells  which  end  the  rare,  half- 
born  friendships  of  life.  A  voyage,  perhaps,  or 
a  short  sojourn  in  a  foreign  country  proves  the 
chance  occasion  of  a  meeting,  and  kindred  hearts 
awaken  to  quick  recognition  of  one  another,  and 
then  their  roads  diverge  and  from  the  parting 
of  the  ways  each  bears  a  sorrow  which  is  of  the 
tragedy  of  existence.  Who  has  not  felt  that  sad- 
ness and  seen  its  shadow  fall  over  the  face  of 
nature  and  far  over  the  coming  days? 

There  is,  in  my  mind,  no  smallest  fear  of  fresh 
encounter  with  an  untried  world.  I  have  long 
since  lost  all  such  feeling,  and  can  set  forth  of  a 
morning  as  light  of  heart,  as  free  from  anxious 
care  as  are  the  birds  which  share  my  early  start, 
and  with  a  sense  of  pure  animal  enjoyment  which 
is,  I  sometimes  dream,  not  far  removed  from 
their  own. 

And  with  small  wonder  can  I  be  so  careless, 
19 


290  THE   WORKERS 

for  ever  since  I  left  Chicago  work  has  ceased  to 
be  a  difficult  thing  to  find  and  has  grown  to  be 
an  increasingly  difficult  matter  to  avoid.  It  has 
come  to  be  a  positive  embarrassment,  for  every 
day  I  am  stopped  by  the  way  and  urged  to  go  to 
work,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  refuse  men  who  are 
most  evidently  short-handed.  I  shall  set  out  in 
the  morning  with  six  dollars — five  earned  from 
Mr.  Barton  and  one  remaining  from  my  last  em- 
ployment— and  I  shall  try  to  cover  a  wide  strip 
of  country  before  settling  down  to  another  job; 
but,  upon  the  basis  of  my  past  experience,  I  am 
sure  that  on  an  average  of  at  least  once  a  day 
in  the  coming  march  some  farmer  will  ask  me  to 
help  him  at  his  work.  All  through  Illinois  and 
from  Minneapolis  to  this  point,  which  is  near 
the  Iowa  border,  this  has  been  my  uniform  ex- 
perience. 

It  was  late  in  the  spring  when  I  left  Chicago. 
Almost  continuous  rains  compelled  me  to  defer 
my  start  from  day  to  day  until  the  month  of 
May  was  far  advanced,  and  then  I  stopped  at 
Joliet  and  joined  for  a  week  a  gang  of  laborers 
in  the  works  of  the  Illinois  Steel  Company.  So 
that  it  was  the  first  of  June  before  I  found  my- 
self in  the  open  country  once  more,  after  six 
months  as  a  city  workman.  Even  then  the  skies 
continued  threatening,  and  frequent  rains  forced 


FROM   CHICAGO  TO  DENVER  291 

me  from  the  soft  loam  of  the  country  roads  to  a 
firmer  footing  on  the  line  of  the  Rock  Island 
Railway  for  most  of  the  journey  to  the  Mis- 
sissippi. I  was  relatively  flush  with  wages  earned 
at  Joliet,  and  so  was  under  no  necessity  to  stop. 
But  the  chance  of  work  never  failed  me,  for  not 
only  in  the  rich  farming  region  about  Morris  but 
also  in  the  brick-kilns  in  the  neighborhood  of  Ot- 
tawa and  Utica  I  found  abundant  offers  of  a  job. 

From  Davenport  I  went  by  rail  to  Minneapo- 
lis, for  I  had  resolved  to  emerge  for  a  week  and 
attend  the  National  Republican  Convention  in 
that  city,  and  not  days  enough  remained,  when 
I  reached  the  river,  to  admit  of  my  walking  there 
in  time  for  the  political  gathering.  But  when 
the  Convention  closed  I  started  again,  penniless 
and  afoot,  on  the  long  march  which  I  have  inter- 
rupted twice,  once  when  working  for  a  fine  old 
Irish  farmer  near  Belle  Plain,  and  a  second  time 
when  I  accepted  Mr.  Barton's  offer. 

It  is  difficult  to  pass  thus  lightly  over  wide 
stretches  of  the  journey.  Under  every  casual 
sentence  is  a  mine  of  what  proved  valuable  ex- 
perience to  me:  The  days  in  the  Steel  Works, 
for  example,  as  a  member  of  a  gang  of  foreign 
laborers  and  associated  with  an  army  of  skilled 
and  disciplined  workmen,  meeting  some  of  them 
on  familiar  terms  at  the  boarding-house  and  at 


292  THE   WORKERS 

the  club,  which  is  an  interesting  experiment  on 
the  part  of  the  company.  Then  a  tramp  along 
the  Illinois  River  through  a  rich  country  which 
teemed  with  vegetation  in  the  luxuriance  of  the 
tropics;  and  a  day's  march  on  the  railway  with 
a  veritable  hobo  who  had  lost  his  partner  and 
cheerfully  took  up  with  me,  and  who  proved  to 
be  a  delightful  fellow,  by  no  means  lost  to  man- 
liness, from  whom  I  parted  most  regretfully 
when  a  job  was  found  for  him  in  a  brick-kiln 
near  Ottawa.  Then  the  Convention  itself,  with 
its  vast  array  of  party  organization,  and  its  high- 
ly dramatic  incidents  as  affecting  the  careers  of 
political  leaders,  and  its  strong  undercurrents  of 
personal  and  sectional  ambition,  and  the  interest- 
ing personages,  and  picturesque  figures;  all  so 
intensely  real  and  finely  typical  and  keenly  alive 
with  national  spirit,  and  splendidly  representa- 
tive of  wide,  heterogeneous  empire  bound  to- 
gether in  marvellous  union.  And  then  a  few 
days  spent  near  Belle  Plain,  where,  driven  by 
the  rain  from  the  road,  I  found  shelter  in  a  farm- 
house shed  and  was  eagerly  seized  upon  by  the 
farmer  as  a  hired  man,  until  one  morning,  when, 
as  usual,  I  had  risen  at  sunrise  and  had  cleaned 
the  stables  and  curried  the  horses  and  was  milk- 
ing the  old  white  cow,  the  longing  for  the  tramp 
laid  sudden  hold  of  me  and  soon  after  breakfast 


FROM   CHICAGO  TO   DENVER  293 

my  eager  feet  were  again  on  the  main-travelled 
road.  The  storm  had  passed,  the  sun  was  shin- 
ing from  a  cloudless  sky,  and  a  strong,  cool  wind 
was  tossing  the  graceful  branches  of  a  cluster  of 
American  elms  at  the  roadside  as  I  left  the  farm, 
and  was  blowing  through  the  dewy,  dark  recesses 
of  a  bit  of  fragrant  woodland  as  I  climbed  the 
hill,  giving  the  sense  of  infinite  vitality;  when 
I  reached  the  summit  there  lay  below  me,  em- 
bedded in  deep  green,  one  of  the  hundred  exquis- 
ite lakes  of  southern  Minnesota,  with  its  rippling 
surface  joyously  dancing  in  the  sunlight  and  add- 
ing a  touch  of  magic  beauty  to  the  rich,  undulat- 
ing landscape  of  varying  field  and  forest  and  deep 
meadow-land.  All  about  me  were  the  homes  of 
original  settlers,  where  yet  live  some  of  the  very 
men  and  women  who,  only  a  generation  ago,  be- 
gan to  reclaim  this  paradise  from  a  boundless 
waste  of  treeless  prairie.  Looking  out  upon  it 
now  from  such  a  height,  seeing  its  dense  wood- 
lands, the  fields  rank  with  standing  grain,  the 
farm-houses  gleaming  white  in  the  sun,  the  blue 
sheets  of  living  water,  and  the  distant  Minnesota 
threading  its  way  by  towns  and  villages  along 
fertile  banks,  one  could  but  dream  of  its  future, 
when  the  crudeness  will  be  gone,  and  close  cult- 
ure will  have  made  it  all  a  very  garden  of  the 
Lord! 


294  THE  WORKERS 

It  was  through  such  country  as  this  that  my 
way  led  me  toward  the  Iowa  border.  I  walked 
along  the  valley  of  the  Minnesota  by  Le  Sueur 
and  St.  Peter  to  Mankato,  where  I  spent  Sun- 
day, and  then,  cutting  over  the  ridge,  I  went 
by  Lake  Crystal  to  Garden  City,  and  so  through 
Yernon  and  Amboy  to  Winnebago  and  on  to 
Blue  Earth  City. 

Not  often  on  the  march  am  I  offered  a  lift, 
but  now  and  again  I  am  picked  up  and  hurried 
over  some  miles  of  the  road,  and  it  was  one  of 
the  best  of  these  windfalls  that  befell  me  on  this 
particular  journey.  I  had  left  Amboy  only  a 
few  miles  behind,  and  the  long,  dusty  road 
stretched  far  to  the  south  in  the  direction  of 
Winnebago,  where  I  meant  to  spend  the  night. 
The  day  was  clear  and  gratefully  warm;  in  the 
meadows  had  just  begun  the  metallic  music  of 
the  mowers,  and  on  the  air  was  the  first  fra- 
grance of  new-mown  hay.  Soon  I  caught  the 
sound  of  the  rapid  drum  of  horses'  hoofs  behind 
me,  and,  turning,  I  saw  a  gentleman  seated  in  a 
light  open  four-wheeler,  driving  a  pair  of  Indian 
ponies  at  a  spanking  pace  in  my  direction.  He 
drew  up  beside  me,  and  asked,  pleasantly,  wheth- 
er I  cared  to  ride.  I  lost  no  time  in  thanking 
him  and  in  mounting  to  the  seat  at  his  side;  in 
a  moment  more  we  were  off  at  a  ten-mile  gait, 


FROM   CHICAGO  TO  DENVER  295 

and  I  was  watching  with  delight  the  business- 
like movement  of  the  ponies'  pace,  with  their 
backs  so  straight  and  level  that  each  might  al- 
most have  held  a  coin  without  dropping  it. 

In  the  meantime  Dr.  Brooks  (for  so  I  shall  call 
the  gentleman,  who  was  returning  to  Winne- 
bago  from  a  professional  visit  on  the  outskirts 
of  his  practice)  was  engaging  me  in  conversation. 
"We  very  naturally  discussed  the  recent  nomina- 
tions and  the  issues  of  the  coming  general  elec- 
tion, and  then  I  had  ample  opportunity  of  learn- 
ing much  from  him  of  actual  local  conditions. 

He  seemed  to  me  to  be  singularly  well  in- 
formed. He  had  travelled  widely  over  the  "West, 
and  this  particular  region  he  had  known  famil- 
iarly since  its  early  settlement.  Every  farm- 
house which  we  passed  he  pointed  out  to  me, 
telling  me  the  farmer's  name  meanwhile,  and 
something  of  his  history.  There  was  a  curious 
uniformity  in  the  narrative.  The  life  was  rough 
enough  in  the  beginning,  no  doubt,  and  of  the 
essence  of  hard  frontier  struggle,  but  it  sounded 
like  a  fairy  tale  as  he  told  me  of  one  man  and 
another  who  had  come  out  in  the  early  days  al- 
most penniless  from  the  East  or  the  Middle  "West 
or,  in  some  cases,  from  a  foreign  country,  and  had 
"  squatted  "  on  the  soil;  now  these  settlers  had 
each  a  hundred  and  sixty  acres  under  high  cul- 


596  THE   WORKERS 

tivation  and  a  good,  substantial  house  and  ade- 
quate barns  and  machinery  and  stock;  they  could 
secure  money  on  easy  terms  at  the  local  bank 
when  they  needed  it,  and  the  market  value  of 
their  land  had  risen  two  hundred  per  cent,  and 
even  higher  in  the  past  twenty-five  years. 

I  should  have  suspected  a  land-boomer  in  the 
doctor  had  there  been  anything  aggressive  or 
boastful  in  his  manner,  but  he  was  speaking  with 
the  simple  directness  of  one  who  knows  and  who 
needs  no  bluster  to  disguise  ignorance  or  an  ul- 
terior motive. 

I  was  deeply  interested,  and  presently  re- 
marked that,  coming  as  I  did  from  the  East,  the 
demand  for  labor  on  the  Western  farms  had  been 
a  surprise  to  me,  and  that  I  was  sure  that  what 
he  was  telling  me  would  sound  strange  to  Eastern 
men,  whose  preconceptions  of  agrarian  condi- 
tions at  the  West  are  formed  largely  from  the 
representations  of  certain  political  parties  which 
are  recruited  from  the  farming  classes. 

Dr.  Brooks  smiled  indulgently,  and  kept  his 
eyes  straight  ahead  while  he  answered  me. 

"  If  you  stay  out  here  long  enough,"  he  said, 
"  you'll  find  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  farmers 
in  the  West.  There  is  one  kind  that  know  their 
business  and  that  are  farmers,  and  there's  an- 
other kind  that  are  a  good  deal  more  interested 


FROM   CHICAGO  TO  DENVER  297 

in  politics  than  they  are  in  farming.  You  can 
put  it  down  as  a  pretty  safe  rule  that  the  farmers 
who  have  the  best  knowledge  of  their  business 
and  who  are  the  most  industrious  and  frugal  and 
economical  are  the  least  dissatisfied  with  their 
conditions  and  the  least  anxious  to  change  them 
by  political  action,  while  the  more  inefficient  and 
shiftless  and  thriftless  a  farmer  is,  the  more  like- 
ly he  is  to  be  a  violent  agitator  for  financial  or 
political  change. 

"  There  seems  to  be  a  growing  weakness 
among  whole  masses  of  our  people,"  he  went  on, 
"  which  leads  them  to  look  to  the  Government 
for  help  instead  of  to  themselves  in  their  own 
industry  and  thrift.  Not  only  the  farmers  are 
affected  by  it,  for  every  demand  upon  the  Gov- 
ernment for  special  legislation  in  the  interest  of 
one  class  or  another  is  evidence  of  this  spirit. 
We  need  very  much,  as  a  people,  to  relearn  the 
simple,  common-sense  maxims  of  Benjamin 
Franklin,  and  to  practise  them." 

I  told  him  something  at  this  point  of  my  past 
winter  in  Chicago — of  an  army  of  unemployed 
and  of  other  armies  of  underpaid  workers,  and 
of  hosts  of  sweat-shop  victims  who  could  scarcely 
be  said  to  be  lacking  in  industry  and  at  least  a 
measure  of  enforced  economy. 

He  listened  patiently  and  with  some  curiosity, 


298  THE  WORKERS 

I  thought,  and  when  I  had  done  he  took  up  the 
subject  quite  eagerly. 

"  What  you  say  is  true  enough,"  he  answered. 
"  We  live  in  an  age  of  high  civilization,  and  civ- 
ilization means  city  life,  and  that  means  great 
centres  of  population,  and  that  gives  rise  to  con- 
gested labor  markets  with  all  the  want  and  mis- 
ery which  you  describe.  All  this,  as  we  have  it 
now,  in  this  country,  is  of  comparatively  recent 
growth,  being  complicated  by  the  vast  numbers 
of  our  ignorant  immigrant  population,  and  we 
have  by  no  means  adjusted  ourselves  to  it  yet. 
You  tell  me  of  an  army  of  unemployed  in  Chi- 
cago, and  I  can  tell  you,  in  reply,  of  a  chronic 
demand  for  help  in  this  country-side,  which  I 
know  well;  a  demand  so  great  that  within  the 
limits  of  a  few  neighboring  counties  we  could 
put  fifty  thousand  men  of  the  right  kind  to 
work." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  have  met  with  an  amazing 
demand  for  workers  ever  since  I  left  Chicago. 
But  this  is  the  busy  season  in  the  country;  when 
the  winter  comes,  would  not  the  men  who  an- 
swered to  the  demand  for  agricultural  laborers 
be  forced  out  of  employment  again  and  back  up- 
on the  chance  livelihood  of  the  towns?  " 

"  Not  unless  they  preferred  it,"  he  replied. 
"  Of  course  the  demand  is  exceptional  at  this 


FROM   CHICAGO  TO  DENVER  299 

season.  How  great  it  is  you  can  infer  when  I 
tell  you  that,  for  the  next  five  or  six  weeks,  al- 
most any  sort  of  a  man  could  get  his  board  and 
a  dollar  a  day,  and  men  of  fair  skill  and  experi- 
ence two  and  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  day,  while 
the  best  men  will  command,  for  certain  kinds  of 
work,  as  high  a  wage  as  three  dollars  and  a  half 
a  day  besides  their  keep. 

"  But  the  point  is  that  our  farmers  prefer  to 
hire  men  by  the  month  for  the  whole  season. 
They  want  their  help  from  the  1st  of  April  until 
the  end  of  November,  and  they  are  willing  to 
pay  an  active,  steady  fellow  twenty  dollars  a 
month  and  everything  found,  even  to  his  wash- 
ing. And  the  demand  is  so  steady  and  the  diffi- 
culty of  getting  good,  industrious  men  so  great, 
that  multitudes  of  our  farmers  would  be  willing 
enough  to  keep  the  right  sort  of  hands  through 
the  winter  months  and  pay  them  something  for 
the  little  that  they  could  find  for  them  to  do, 
for  the  sake  of  having  them  through  the  spring 
and  summer  and  autumn  when  men  are  hard 
to  find." 


On  the  next  day  I  reached  Blue  Earth  City 
at  noon,  and  spent  a  dime  at  a  bakery  for  a  mid- 
day meal,  and  then  went  bowling  off  toward  the 


300  THE  WORKERS 

Iowa  border  at  Elmore,  which  place  I  counted 
upon  reaching  by  nightfall. 

One  dollar  remained  to  me  of  my  last  store, 
and  there  is  a  marvellous  fund  of  the  feeling  of 
independence  in  a  dollar  for  one  who  is  familiar 
with  the  sense  of  cowing,  unmanning  insecurity 
which  comes  of  being  penniless.  Already  I  had 
stopped  once  in  southern  Minnesota,  and  so  large 
a  sum  as  a  dollar  would  certainly  see  me  well 
into  Iowa,  I  was  thinking,  before  I  should  be 
obliged  to  halt  again  to  replenish  my  purse. 

It  was  this  view  of  the  case  which  made  me 
not  very  hospitable  to  the  offer  of  a  farmer  who 
presently  called  to  me  with  an  inquiry  as  to 
whether  I  would  work  for  him. 

The  incident  was  an  every-day  occurrence, 
and  I  felt  at  first  only  the  usual  embarrassment 
in  my  effort  to  evade  the  offer  with  some  show 
of  reason;  but  Mr.  Barton,  for  it  was  he,  asked 
me  to  at  least  give  it  a  trial  before  deciding  the 
matter,  and,  seeing  in  the  suggestion  an  admi- 
rable opportunity  for  a  short  term  of  service,  I 
replied  that,  if  I  concluded  to  stay  at  all,  I  could 
not  consent  to  remain  for  longer  than  a  week 
together,  and  must  be  held  free  to  go  at  the  end 
of  the  first  week  if  I  chose. 

Mr.  Barton  agreed  to  this  immediately,  and 
invited  me  to  a  seat  beside  him  on  a  load  of 


FROM   CHICAGO   TO  DENVER  301 

wheat  which  he  was  taking  to  the  mill.  I  said 
that  I  preferred  to  walk  on  to  his  farm,  the  di- 
rection of  which  he  had  pointed  out  to  me  and 
which  was  but  a  couple  of  miles  down  a  side 
road. 

At  first  every  step  which  bore  me  away  from 
the  main-travelled  road  added  to  my  uncertainty 
of  mind.  Was  I  acting  wisely  in  stopping  so 
soon  again  when  I  might  easily  push  on  for  an- 
other fifty  miles  or  more?  Presently  I  came  to 
a  railway  crossing,  and  sitting  down  to  rest  on 
the  roadside,  I  thought  the  matter  over,  and 
decided  finally  to  go  on  to  the  farm. 

I  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  it  from  Mr. 
Barton's  description.  A  row  of  poplars  stood 
just  within  a  trim  picket-fence  which  enclosed 
the  farm-house  yard  from  the  road.  Opening 
the  gate  I  walked  up  the  foot-path  which  cut  its 
way  for  a  hundred  yards  through  a  well-kept 
lawn,  shaded  with  fruit-trees,  to  the  house  stand- 
ing on  the  crest  of  the  ridge,  surrounded  by  well- 
grown  maples.  It  was  the  usual  two-storied, 
white  farm-house  with  green  shutters,  having  a 
wing  at  the  side  with  a  porch  in  front  of  it  over- 
grown with  honeysuckle. 

I  had  come  armed  with  a  message  for  Mrs. 
Barton  from  her  husband;  but  for  all  that,  an 
increasing  feeling  of  embarrassment  accompa- 


302  THE  WORKERS 

nied  me  up  the  walk,  and  when  I  knocked  at  the 
screen-door  which  opened  upon  the  porch,  I  was 
sorely  tempted  for  a  moment  to  break  and  run. 
The  inner  door  was  open,  and  through  the  screen 
I  could  see  Mrs.  Barton  and  one  of  her  daugh- 
ters, whom  I  shall  call  Miss  Emily,  ironing  at 
opposite  ends  of  a  table,  while  another  daughter, 
Miss  Julia  let  us  say,  was  sewing  beside  them. 
The  faultless  order  and  precision  which  had  ap- 
peared in  every  external  detail  of  the  farm  were 
in  perfect  keeping  with  what  I  could  see  of  the 
interior  of  the  home.  It  contained  only  the 
plainest  furniture,  but  the  room  was  redolent  of 
a  clean,  cool,  inviting  comfort,  perfectly  suited 
to  the  needs  of  men  who  come  in  from  long,  hard 
work  in  the  heat  of  the  fields.  The  windows 
and  outer  doors  were  guarded  by  close-fitting 
screens;  the  inner  wood-work  was  painted  a 
light,  delicate  color,  as  fresh  and  clean  as  though 
newly  applied;  and  the  walls  were  covered  with 
a  simple,  harmonious  paper  which  matched  well 
with  the  prevailing  shade  in  the  clean  rag-carpet 
on  the  floor.  A  large  rocker  and  a  sofa,  covered 
with  Brussels  carpet,  were  supplemented  by  a 
plentiful  supply  of  plain  chairs. 

Miss  Julia  was  the  first  to  notice  me;  putting 
down  her  sewing,  she  stepped  to  the  door  and 
stood  facing  me  from  behind  the  screen. 


FROM   CHICAGO  TO  DENVER  303 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Barton's  house?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  his  daughter. 

"  Well,  he  has  sent  me  here  with  a  message 
for  Mrs.  Barton,"  I  went  on;  "  and  wishes  me 
to  say  that  he  has  hired  me  to  work  on  the  farm." 

I  was  sadly  ill  at  ease  by  this  time,  and  very 
sorry  that  I  had  not  accompanied  Mr.  Barton 
to  the  mill,  and  then  to  his  home,  and  left  to  him 
all  necessary  explanations.  But  it  was  too  late 
now  for  regrets,  and  Mrs.  Barton,  a  sweet-faced, 
gentle  little  lady,  had  joined  her  daughter  at  the 
door. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  father  meant  to  hire  any 
more  men  just  now,"  she  said,  while  a  nervous 
alarm  played  in  her  timid  eyes  at  sight  of  so 
rough  an  applicant  for  work. 

I  do  all  that  I  can  to  keep  a  respectable  ap- 
pearance, and  never  a  day  passes  without  the 
opportunity  of  a  bath  in  a  lake  or  a  wayside 
stream,  and  sometimes  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to 
come  upon  two  or  three  such  chances  for  re- 
freshment in  a  day's  march.  But  a  long  course 
of  wearing  the  same  outer  garments  and  sleeping 
in  brick-kilns  and  hay-ricks  must  inevitably  pro- 
duce an  effect  in  clothing  which,  accompanied  by 
an  unshaven  face,  gives  rise  to  a  somewhat  scan- 
dalous figure. 

I  could  only  say,  in  reply  to  Mrs.  Barton,  that 


304  THE  WORKERS 

her  husband's  instructions  to  me  were  simply  to 
deliver  the  message  which  I  had  brought,  and 
then  to  await  his  coming  at  the  farm. 

She  was  by  no  means  reassured,  but  her  hos- 
pitality overcame  her  fear,  and,  unfastening  the 
screen-door,  she  opened  it  with  an  invitation  to 
me  to  come  in. 

The  dust  on  my  boots  and  the  general  con- 
dition of  my  dress  became  the  instant  source  of 
poignant  feeling  as  I  stepped  upon  the  speckless 
carpet  and  took  a  seat  in  a  straight-backed  wood- 
en chair  which  shone  as  though  the  varnish  were 
but  newly  dry. 

The  situation  was  unmistakably  awkward, 
and,  under  the  disturbing  spell  of  it,  I  sat  very 
straight  in  the  chair  with  feet  close  together  and 
my  hands  on  my  knees,  anathematizing  myself 
for  stopping  before  there  was  any  need  for  it 
and  getting  myself  into  a  mess.  Then  I  began 
to  cast  about  for  some  excuse  for  going  out-of- 
doors  once  more,  so  that  I  could  cut  and  run  for 
the  road. 

Out  of  purest  kindness  of  heart  Mrs.  Barton 
was  trying  to  set  me  at  ease.  There  was  some 
threat  of  rain,  she  remarked;  and  we  had  had 
a  great  deal  of  rain  this  spring,  she  added;  and 
where  had  I  met  Mr.  Barton?  and  when  did  he 
say  that  he  would  be  home?  she  inquired. 


FROM  CHICAGO  TO  DENVER  305 

My  best  efforts  at  responsiveness  were  dismal 
failures,  and  the  gloom  was  growing  denser 
when  Miss  Julia  came  to  my  rescue  with  a  copy 
of  The  Youth's  Companion,  which  she  suggested 
that  I  might  care  to  read  while  waiting. 

Over  and  over  again  I  read  sections  of  contin- 
ued "  boys'  stories  "  and  a  number  of  interesting 
anecdotes  and  tried  to  study  out  certain  puzzles, 
but  Mr.  Barton  did  not  come.  Mrs.  Barton  and 
her  daughters  had  immediately  resumed  their 
work  and  their  conversation,  and,  with  kind  con- 
siderateness,  had  left  me  to  the  paper.  The  hot 
summer  afternoon  slowly  dragged  its  length  to- 
ward evening.  Through  Breaks  in  rolling  clouds, 
heavy  with  rain,  the  sun  shone  at  intervals  with 
piercing  heat.  A  warm,  damp,  sun-lit  air,  laden 
with  honeysuckle  and  the  fragrance  of  straw- 
berry-beds, came  floating  idly  through  the  open 
doors  and  windows,  bearing  the  droning  hum 
of  many  bees,  which  was  like  a  low  accompani- 
ment to  the  soft  voices  of  the  women.  Moving 
up  the  lane  with  the  stately,  steady  motion  of  an 
elephant,  came  presently  a  huge  rick  of  hay,  the 
horses  almost  concealed  under  the  over-drooping 
load  and  two  hired  men  seated  comfortably  on 
top. 

Soon  after  this  Mr.  Barton  arrived,  and  I  went 

out  to  meet  him  in  the  yard  and  helped  him  un- 
20 


306  THE   WORKERS 

hitch  the  horses.  Then  he  set  me  to  ploughing 
potatoes  in  the  garden  with  his  youngest  son,  an 
intelligent,  gentlemanlike  lad  of  seventeen,  who, 
as  I  discovered  later,  was  preparing  for  college, 
for  scarcely  a  day  passed  that  his  sister  Julia, 
who  teaches  school  in  a  neighboring  town 
through  the  winters,  did  not  find  time  to  help 
him  with  his  Algebra  and  Latin.  When  we  were 
called  to  supper  I  found  that  my  case  was  satis- 
factorily explained  to  the  family,  and  that  I 
could  now  read  my  title  clear  to  a  perfectly  com- 
fortable position  among  them. 

Would  that  I  could  do  justice  to  the  exquisite 
charm  which  I  began  to  feel  at  once  in  that  sim- 
ple, natural  home-life!  The  men  assembled  at 
the  call  to  supper  from  different  quarters  of  the 
farm.  There  were  five  of  us,  Mr.  Barton  and  his 
son  Richard,  and,  besides  me,  two  other  hired 
men,  Al,  an  inflexible  Yankee  transplanted  from 
far  down  East,  and  Harry,  a  stalwart  young  Eng- 
lishman of  the  grown-up  "  butcher's  boy  '*'  vari- 
ety, whose  "  h's  "  had  grown  to  be  a  source  of 
discomfort  to  him.  We  washed  on  the  kitchen 
porch,  and,  contrary  to  the  usual  custom  on  the 
farms,  we  put  on  our  coats  before  entering  the 
dining-room,  which  is  also  the  family  sitting- 
room,  where  I  had  found  Mrs.  Barton  and  her 
daughters  at  work. 


FROM  CHICAGO  TO  DENVER  307 

The  table  was  spread  with  clean  linen,  and 
a  napkin  was  at  each  place.  Mr.  Barton  said 
grace  in  the  midst  of  a  reverent  silence,  which 
continued  while  we  began  upon  a  meal  abundant 
enough  for  a  hungry  man  and  dainty  enough  for 
a  lady. 

After  supper  Harry  and  I  went  to  fetch  the 
cows,  which  had  to  be  driven  in  from  a  pasture 
beyond  a  little  river  that  flows  through  the  farm. 
There  were  thirty-seven  of  them  in  all  to  be 
milked,  but  Miss  Emily  and  Miss  Julia  lent  a 
hand,  so  that  it  did  not  take  long,  and  when 
the  horses  had  been  fed  and  their  stalls  made 
ready  for  the  night,  we  men  were  free.  In  the 
dark,  star-lit  evening,  which  followed  almost 
instantly  upon  the  setting  of  the  sun,  we  walked 
down  to  the  river  for  the  regular  evening 
bath. 

It  is  early  yet  for  sight  of  the  past  week  in 
true  perspective,  but  even  now  its  events  take 
form  in  memory  with  a  certain  natural  sequence. 
With  only  one  exception,  clear,  radiant  summer 
days  have  followed  one  another,  days  begun  for 
us  at  five  o'clock  and  spent  in  the  hay-fields  when 
the  chores  were  done  and  breakfast  over.  Long 
days  they  were,  full  of  hard  work  in  the  heat  of 
the  meadows,  but  there  was  the  refreshing  cool 
of  the  house  at  mid-day,  and  a  dinner  excellent 


308  THE  WORKERS 

in  itself  but  to  our  whetted  appetites  a  keen  phys- 
ical delight.  And  better  even  than  dinner  was 
supper  at  the  end  of  the  day's  work  in  the  fields, 
a  delicious  supper  of  cold  meats  and  potatoes  and 
home-made  bread  and  milk  and  tea,  and  finally 
cake  with  strawberries  from  the  garden.  If  any- 
thing could  have  been  better  than  that  it  was 
when  Richard  and  we  three  hired  men  took 
towels  down  to  the  river  in  the  gloom  of  the  early 
evening,  and  under  the  clear  summer  stars  from 
the  high  embankment  covered  with  soft  turf, 
with  the  glitter  of  fire-flies  all  about  us  and  the 
air  full  of  the  deep  croaking  of  frogs  and  the 
sharp  reiterations  of  the  katydids,  dove  headlong 
into  the  dark,  cool,  flowing  water.  We  swam 
about  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  and  came  out  with 
scarcely  a  trace  left  in  our  muscles  of  the  ache 
of  the  day's  labor  and  then  went  to  bed  to  eight 
hours  of  deepest  sleep. 

One  was  a  rainy  day  when  work  in  the  fields 
was  impossible,  and  we  spent  it  in  the  barn  run- 
ning some  of  last  year's  wheat  through  the  fan- 
ning mill  and  measuring  and  sacking  it  ready  for 
shipment.  Then  Sunday  came  with  its  long, 
peaceful  rest.  Al  and  Harry  secured  each  a 
buggy  and  were  given  the  use  of  two  of  the  farm 
horses,  and,  in  their  best  Sunday  black,  they 
started  after  the  chores  were  done  to  take  their 


FROM   CHICAGO   TO   DENVER  309 

best  girls  to  church  and  for  a  long  drive  in  the 
afternoon. 

The  family  attend  church  in  Blue  Earth  City, 
but  their  rector  has  another  parish  and  can 
preach  here  only  on  alternate  Sundays.  This 
was  his  Sunday  in  the  other  parish  and  there  was 
a  Sunday-school  service  here.  The  restful  ob- 
servance of  the  day  seemed  to  me  in  most  natural 
keeping  with  the  deeply  religious  tone  of  the 
family  life.  Morning  worship  followed  break- 
fast as  usual;  then  came  the  preparation  for 
church,  and  after  the  morning  service  and  the 
mid-day  meal,  which  was  almost  wholly  prepared 
on  Saturday,  the  afternoon  was  spent  in  reading. 
After  a  light  supper  in  the  evening  Miss  Julia 
played  the  harmonium  in  the  parlor,  and  we  all 
joined  in  singing  hymns  until  bedtime. 

If  there  is  one  scene  more  than  another  which 
I  shall  always  remember  as  eminently  character- 
istic of  the  household,  it  surely  is  that  of  morn- 
ing prayers.  No  pressure  of  work,  even  at  the 
very  height  of  the  haying  season,  is  allowed  to 
interfere  with  this  act  of  worship.  Immediately 
after  breakfast  the  family  group  themselves 
about  the  dining-room,  drawing  off  a  little  from 
the  table,  and  Mr.  Barton,  taking  down  an  old 
Bible  from  the  mantel-shelf,  seats  himself  in  the 
rocker  and  begins  to  read  the  morning  lesson. 


310  THE   WORKERS 

The  passages  have  been  from  the  prophecy  of 
Ezekiel,  and,  stronger  than  any  other  association 
with  that  book,  will  hereafter  be  for  me  the 
sturdy  figure  of  Mr.  Barton  in  his  working 
clothes,  seated  in  a  rocking-chair  with  his  head 
bowed  over  a  Bible  as  he  reads,  reverently,  the 
oft-recurrent  phrase: 

The  Word  of  the  Lord  came  again  unto  me  saying,  Son 
of  Man, 

The  prayer  that  followed  has  been  always  a 
simple,  earnest  appeal  for  help  and  guidance.  It 
was  as  though  our  dependence  upon  God  and  His 
right  to  supreme  devotion  in  every  act  of  life  was 
instinctively  recognized,  and  that  the  worship 
was  a  natural  expression  of  love  to  the  Father 
of  us  all,  thus  renewing  our  wills  and  bringing 
us  into  captivity  unto  the  obedience  of  Christ, 
and  sending  us  forth  to  the  duties  of  the  day 
strong  in  the  sense  of  the  sacredness  of  work  as 
service  to  the  Lord,  and  of  His  presence  with  us 
as  the  source  of  all  life  and  hope  and  strength. 

Monday  was  the  Fourth  of  July.  Harry  and 
Al  were  early  off  again  with  buggies  and  best 
girls,  and  Mr.  Barton  invited  me  to  join  the  fam- 
ily in  celebrating  the  day  in  town.  We  hitched 
a  team  to  a  four-seated  market  wagon,  and  Mr. 
Barton's  son  and  his  wife,  who  live  on  an  adjoin- 


FROM   CHICAGO   TO  DENVER  311 

ing  farm,  drove  with  us  to  Blue  Earth  City, 
where  we  were  to  attend  the  festivities  and  go 
for  dinner  to  the  home  of  a  married  daughter  of 
Mr.  Barton,  whose  husband  is  a  merchant  there. 

All  along  the  country  roads  converging  to- 
ward the  county  seat  we  saw  lines  of  farmers' 
wagons  driving  to  the  common  centre.  There 
was  great  variety  of  equipage;  some  were  very 
rude  and  plain,  but  others  were  exceedingly  well 
appointed,  and  not  a  few  of  the  low  phaeton- 
buggy  type  rose  to  a  degree  of  elegance. 

Many  of  the  nearer  dwellers  were  walking  in, 
and  as  we  approached  our  destination  the  foot- 
paths were  crowded,  chiefly  with  young  men  and 
boys,  and  the  town  itself,  when  we  entered  it,  we 
found  thronged  with  holiday-seekers,  the  women 
in  light  dresses  and  bright  ribbons,  the  men  in 
sober  black,  and  all  of  them  in  their  movements 
giving  the  sense  of  heavily  conscientious  merry- 
making in  spite  of  the  glorious  sunshine  and  the 
air  that  throbbed  with  the  joy  of  a  ripe  summer's 
day. 

When  the  horses  were  put  up  we  fell  in  with 
the  stream  of  people  moving  toward  the  main 
street,  and  there  in  the  thick  of  the  serious  throng 
we  stood  on  the  curb  watching  a  procession  of 
local  organizations  file  past,  headed  by  a  brass 
band  from  Winnebago,  all  gorgeous  in  new  uni- 


312  THE  WORKERS 

form  and  led  by  citizens  on  horseback  as  im- 
portant and  uncomfortable  as  the  marshals  in  a 
St.  Patrick's  Day  parade. 

There  was  a  common  movement  then  of  the 
crowd,  through  streets  which  cracked  to  the  con- 
tinuous discharge  of  explosives,  toward  a  wood 
on  the  outskirts,  where  a  rough  booth  had  been 
erected  and  row  on  row  of  benches  placed  before 
it  in  the  shade.  We  found  seats  near  to  the 
front,  and  presently  there  fell  a  hush  upon  the 
assembly  which  quieted  the  flutter  of  fans  and 
the  mingled  interchange  of  neighborly  conversa- 
tion. A  procession  of  little  girls  in  white,  with 
bright  blue  sashes,  each  wearing  the  name  of  a 
State  or  Territory  in  silver  letters  across  the  band 
of  her  sailor  hat,  which  had  long  blue  streamers 
behind,  came  filing  in  among  the  crowd,  all  in- 
tensely trim  and  self-conscious  with  their  fingers 
protruding  stiffly  from  white  cotton  mits.  Fol- 
lowing them  were  a  minister  and  a  schoolmaster 
and  a  small  group  of  other  prominent  citizens, 
from  among  whom  towered  the  tall,  massive  fig- 
ure and  the  clean-cut,  rugged,  beardless  face  of 
an  old  ex-senator  who  was  the  orator  of  the  day. 

The  little  girls  grouped  themselves  on  benches 
which  rose  like  steps  from  the  ground  to  the  level 
of  the  floor  of  the  booth,  and  the  citizens  took 
seats  assigned  them  on  the  platform.  One  of 


FROM   CHICAGO   TO   DENVER  313 

their  number,  the  chairman  of  the  occasion,  in- 
troduced the  minister,  who  led  the  company  in 
prayer.  Then  the  schoolmaster  was  presented  as 
the  reader  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 
A  few  explanatory  sentences  in  unconventional 
English  served  to  bring  vividly  to  the  minds  of 
the  people  the  familiar  circumstances  of  the  sign- 
ing of  the  Declaration,  and  then  in  sonorous, 
ringing  voice  he  read,  amid  breathless  stillness, 
the  deep  natural  stillness  of  the  woodland,  the 
well-remembered  phrases  of  that  great  docu- 
ment. There  was  no  applause  when  he  ceased, 
no  outward  demonstration  of  any  kind,  but 
through  the  great  still  company  one  could  feel 
the  strong  movement  of  the  sense  of  national 
life. 

The  ex-senator  then  rose  to  speak.  He  was 
himself  a  frontiersman,  having  known  the 
Northwest  from  its  early  settlement  and  having 
represented  it  in  Congress  a  generation  ago,  and 
he  spoke  to  people  whose  history  he  knew  and 
whose  temper  he  thoroughly  understood.  It  was 
inspiriting  to  catch  the  dominant  note  of  what 
he  said  and  to  watch  its  effect  upon  his  hearers. 
There  was  talk  of  national  growth,  but  without 
boasting,  and  there  was  very  serious  reckoning 
of  national  problems,  but  without  carping,  and 
there  was  high  appeal  to  national  responsibility, 


314  THE   WORKERS 

but  without  canting,  and  when  at  the  end,  out 
of  the  wealth  of  his  own  personal  association  with 
the  man,  he  spoke  of  Lincoln  and  enforced  all 
that  he  had  said  with  homely,  cogent  teachings 
drawn  from  the  life  and  the  words  of  the  great 
apostle  of  the  common  people,  the  assembly  was 
moved  and  stirred  as  no  other  appeal  could  have 
affected  it. 

After  this  the  crowd  scattered  for  dinner, 
most  of  the  people  re-entering  the  town,  and  the 
spirit  of  fun,  no  longer  to  be  restrained  by  a  con- 
scientious sense  of  the  seriousness  of  enjoyment, 
broke  loose  in  a  bit  of  genuine  American  horse- 
play, when  a  company  of  boys  and  young  men,  in 
most  fantastic  disguise,  passed  in  grotesque  pro- 
cession through  the  streets,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
the  solemn  crowds  really  lost  self-consciousness 
in  true  abandon  to  the  spontaneous  sport. 

The  Barton  family  had  soon  gathered  at  the 
married  daughter's  home,  and  there  with  the 
greatest  good  cheer  we  had  a  picnic  dinner  of 
delightful  cold  meats,  and  the  thinnest  of  bread 
and  butter,  and  olives,  and  dainty  home-made 
cakes,  and  the  reddest  of  ripe  cherries — all  served 
to  us  as  we  sat  just  within  the  dining-room  door 
or  ranged  in  a  semicircle  about  it  in  the  shade 
on  the  lawn. 

When  it  was  over  everyone  was  eager  to  start 


FROM   CHICAGO  TO   DENVER  315 

for  the  public  green  outside  the  town,  where  the 
afternoon's  sports  were  to  be  held.  It  was  not 
far,  and  we  walked  out,  but  almost  a  continuous 
stream  of  carriages  was  passing  us  in  a  common 
movement,  and  when  we  reached  the  bridge  just 
outside  the  town  the  stream  had  narrowed  to  an 
unbroken  line  of  vehicles  moving  slowly  in  single 
file.  At  the  centre  of  the  bridge  which  spans 
a  narrow  stream  below  the  public  green  stood  an 
interesting  figure  as  we  drew  up.  He  was  a  tall, 
lean  man  of  sixty,  perhaps,  but  without  a  sug- 
gestion of  old  age  in  his  lithe,  sinewy  frame; 
a  Yankee  by  every  gift  of  nature,  with  the  sharp- 
ly inquisitive  face  of  a  ferret  and  shrewd  blue 
eyes  with  a  gleam  of  humor  in  them  and  a  little 
tuft  of  whiskers  on  his  chin.  Every  vehicle,  as 
it  passed,  underwent  an  interested  scrutiny  from 
him,  and  his  whiskers  worked  comically  up  and 
down  as  he  cordially  greeted  the  occupants  whom 
he  knew.  I  was  walking  with  Mr.  Barton,  and 
seeing  us  in  the  crowd  on  foot,  he  eagerly  hailed 
Mr.  Barton  as  a  sympathetic  old  acquaintance. 

"  John,"  he  said,  "  I  was  just  thinking  as  I 
stood  here  how  I  was  to  the  Fourth  of  July  cele- 
bration in  these  parts  thirty  years  ago  to-day,  in 
'62.  And  my  gracious,  it's  hard  to  realize  the 
change !  Why,  there  warn't  a  team  of  horses  in 
the  hull  county  then,  and  everybody  come  on 


316  THE   WORKERS 

foot  or  else  behind  a  yoke  of  oxen.  But  just 
look  at  that  percession  now!  There  ain't  a  ox- 
team  in  the  hull  outfit,  and  ther's  some  rigs  here 
that's  fine  enough  for  the  President  to  ride  in." 

The  common  presented  a  truly  festive  scene 
when  we  reached  it.  As  large  as  a  ten-acre  lot, 
it  was  covered  with  a  soft,  rich  turf  and  enclosed 
on  three  sides  by  beautiful  woodland  and  on  the 
fourth  by  the  main-travelled  road.  Horses,  tied 
in  the  shade  along  the  outer  rim  of  trees,  were 
munching  hay  from  piles  which  had  been  thrown 
down  before  them.  Deserted  vehicles,  ranging 
from  white-canopied  prairie-schooners  and  rough 
market-carts  to  the  smartest  of  new  buggies, 
stood  idly  among  the  trees,  and,  with  changing 
lights  and  shadows  playing  over  them,  were 
groups  of  picnickers  seated  on  the  mossy  ground 
about  white  table-cloths  which  bore  their  viands, 
and  some  on  rustic  benches  at  rough  tables  has- 
tily put  up  for  the  occasion. 

But  the  dinner-hour  was  nearly  over,  and 
those  who  had  picnicked  in  the  woods  were  fast 
joining  the  crowds  who  poured  in  upon  the  com- 
mon from  the  town.  The  peanut  and  popcorn 
and  lemonade  venders  were  out  in  force,  and  you 
could  hear  from  many  quarters  the  professional 
tones  of  fakirs  who  invited  the  crowds  to  throw 
rings  at  walking-sticks,  or  rubber  balls  at  stuffed 


FKOM   CHICAGO   TO   DENVER  317 

dolls  for  cigars,  or  to  various  tests  of  strength  on 
a  variety  of  ingenious  machines.  These  had 
their  votaries  for  a  time,  and  there  was  much 
laughter  and  chaffing  about  the  jousts,  but  the 
current  of  the  crowd  soon  set  overwhelmingly 
toward  a  quarter  of  the  field  where  a  baseball 
game  was  being  started.  Two  townships  were 
to  play  each  other.  There  was  no  organized  nine 
in  either,  but  a  volunteer  one  was  presently  se- 
cured from  both.  Not  without  some  difficulty, 
however.  I  saw  one  sturdy  young  farmer  offer 
his  services  as  pitcher,  and  his  wife,  who  stood 
by  with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  pleaded  with  him 
to  desist. 

"  Charlie,"  she  repeated  with  whining  petu- 
lance, "  you  hadn't  ought  to;  you  know  you 
hadn't  ought  to.  Just  think  how  stiff  and  sore 
you'll  be  to-morrow.  You  won't  be  fit  for  the 
haying."  But  the  spirit  of  the  sport  was  upon 
Charlie,  and  not  only  did  he  pitch  for  his  town- 
ship, but  he  took  off  his  boots  and  played  in 
stocking-feet  to  facilitate  his  base  running. 

Another  young  farmer,  a  gorgeous  swell,  with 
his  best  girl  beside  him  in  a  phaeton-buggy,  and 
with  no  end  of  a  white  waistcoat  and  a  white 
cravat,  and  with  a  high,  stiff  collar  chafing  his 
well-burned  neck,  sat  spectator  to  the  scene  for 
a  time;  then,  unable  to  resist  longer  the  demand 


318  THE   WORKERS 

for  a  catcner  for  his  township  nine,  he  asked  the 
young  woman  to  hold  the  horses,  and,  leaving 
his  coat  and  waistcoat  and  high  collar  in  her 
care,  he  caught  a  plucky  game  without  a  mask 
or  a  breast-pad  and  with  only  an  indifferent 
glove,  and  he  threw  so  well  to  second  that  the 
other  side  had  to  give  up  trying  to  steal  that  base. 

It  was  a  perfectly  delightful  game;  not  at  all 
a  duel  of  batteries,  but  like  a  contest  between 
two  newly  organized  rival  freshman  nines  before 
any  team-work  has  been  developed,  for  both 
pitchers  were  hit  freely,  and  there  were  plenty 
of  the  most  engaging  errors  and  the  wildest  of 
excited  throwing,  and  at  times  a  perfect  merry- 
go-round  of  frantic  base-running,  during  which 
it  was  difficult  to  keep  track  of  the  score. 

"We  drove  back  to  the  farm  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening  in  time  for  supper  and  the  chores  before 
nightfall,  and  at  five  o'clock  on  the  next  morning 
began  again  a  day  of  work  in  the  hay-fields. 

DENVER,  COL.,  September  21,  1892. 

It  is  a  long  cry  from  Mr.  Barton's  farm  to  this 
beautiful  Western  city,  but  the  story  of  the  jour- 
ney can  easily  be  shortened  to  a  few  pages,  which 
will  serve  to  picture  its  salient  incidents.  Even 
at  this  distance  of  time  and  space  I  cannot  touch 
in  passing  upon  my  parting  with  the  Barton 


FROM   CHICAGO   TO   DENVER  319* 

family  without  feeling  again  the  sense  of  home- 
sickness which  accompanied  me  as,  in  the  glory 
of  an  early  July  morning,  I  walked  down  the 
garden-path  to  the  road,  with  her  good-by  and 
a  gentle  "  God  bless  you!  "  from  Mrs.  Barton 
sounding  in  my  ear,  and  a  last  repeated  generous 
offer  from  Mr.  Barton  of  a  permanent  home,  if 
I  would  stay  with  them,  almost  following  me 
to  the  gate.  It  was  the  best  of  the  many  chances 
which  I  have  found  open  to  men  who  are  hon- 
estly in  search  of  work  and  willing  to  work  their 
way  industriously  and  patiently  to  advancement. 
I  have  found  many  jobs  thus  far,  and  in  scarcely 
one  of  them  have  I  failed  to  see  the  means  of 
winning  promotion  and  improved  position,  while 
not  a  few  have  seemed  to  me  to  open  a  way 
to  considerable  business  success  to  a  man  shrewd 
enough  to  seize  it  and  persistent  enough  to 
develop  it.  Often,  as  I  look  back  upon  two 
two  thousand  miles  of  country  crossed — apart 
from  the  splendor  of  it — the  almost  overwhelm- 
ing impression  that  it  leaves  of  boundless  em- 
pire wherein  a  growing,  intelligent,  industrious, 
God-fearing  people  are  slowly  working  out  great 
ends  in  industrial  achievement  and  personal 
character  and  in  national  life,  an  impression 
which  thrills  one  with  a  new-found  knowledge 
and  love  of  one's  country,  with  her  "  glorious 


820  THE   WORKERS 

might  of  heaven-born  freedom  "  and  the  resist- 
less resurgence  of  her  boundless  energies,  and, 
notwithstanding  all  waywardness,  a  deep-seated, 
unalterable  consciousness  of  national  responsibil- 
ity to  the  most  high  God ;  apart  from  all  this,  the 
strongest  sense  which  possesses  one  in  any  retro- 
spect of  a  long,  laborious  expedition  like  mine, 
is  that  of  a  wide  land,  which  teems  with  oppor- 
tunities open  to  energy  and  patient  toil.  Local 
labor  markets  there  are  which  are  terribly  crowd- 
ed, as  I  found  in  Chicago  to  my  cost.  Awful 
suffering  there  is  among  workers  who  are  in  the 
clutch  of  illness,  or,  bound  by  ties  which  they 
cannot  break,  are  unable  to  move  to  more  favor- 
able regions;  pitiful  degradation  there  is  among 
many  who  lack  imagination  to  see  a  way  and  the 
energy  to  pursue  it,  and  who,  without  the  con- 
genital qualities  which  make  for  successful  strug- 
gle, sink  into  the  slough  of  purposeless  idleness; 
deep  depravity  and  unutterable  misery  there  are 
in  the  great  congested  labor-centres,  many  of 
whose  conditions  are  the  price  which  we  pay  for 
our  economic  freedom.  But  the  broad  fact  re- 
mains, that  the  sun  never  shone  upon  a  race  of 
civilized  men  whose  responsibilities  were  greater 
and  whose  problems  were  more  charged  with  the 
welfare  of  mankind,  among  whom  energy  and 
thrift  and  perseverance  and  ability  were  surer 


FROM   CHICAGO   TO  DENVER  321 

of  their  just  rewards,  and  where  there  were  so 
many  and  such  various  chances  of  successful  and 
honorable  career. 

In  leaving  Mr.  Barton's  farm  I  found  much 
the  same  external  conditions  as  those  with  which 
I  had  grown  familiar  ever  since  I  left  Chicago. 
It  was  a  rich  agricultural  region,  and  was  inhab- 
ited throughout  this  section  in  curious,  clearly 
defined  communities.  In  one  quarter  was  a  Ger- 
man settlement,  and  in  another  a  Norwegian, 
and  a  Swedish  settlement  in  a  third,  while  I 
heard  of  a  French  colony  as  a  curiosity  in  an- 
other direction,  and  even  an  organization  of 
Quakers.  But  there  were  native-born  Ameri- 
cans in  plenty,  and  chiefly  of  New  England  ante- 
cedents, as  I  found  in  my  chance  acquaintance 
with  farmers  by  the  way,  and  from  observations 
of  such  a  charming  town  as  Algona,  in  northern 
Iowa,  where  I  spent  several  days.  On  every  hand 
it  was  borne  in  upon  one,  not  merely  from  what 
appeared  but  from  the  invariable  assurances  of 
those  who  have  lived  long  in  the  region,  that 
among  the  foreign  population  no  fact  is  more 
thoroughly  established  than  that  of  its  swift  as- 
similation. So  swift  and  sure  a  process  is  this 
said  to  be  that  the  children  born  upon  the  soil, 
of  immigrant  parentage,  seem  to  lose  certain 
physical  characteristics  which  would  link  them 
21 


322  THE   WORKERS 

to  an  alien  ancestry,  and  to  take  on  others  which 
approximate  to  recognized  American  types. 
Their  children,  in  turn,  are  said  to  be  natives 
of  established  character;  but  of  them  all  none 
surpasses  the  first-comers,  when  once  they  are 
settled  and  grown  familiar  with  our  institutions, 
in  a  stanch,  honest  conservatism  and  in  a  loyal, 
patriotic  devotion  to  their  adopted  country. 

It  was  nearly  the  end  of  July  when  I  reached 
Council  Bluffs.  I  was  well  worn  with  walking, 
for  the  last  two  hundred  miles  I  had  covered  in 
six  days'  march,  and  I  was  glad  enough  to  stop 
for  a  time.  But  I  did  not  wish  to  stop  there,  for 
my  letters  for  several  weeks  past  had  been  for- 
warded to  Omaha,  and  were  now  awaiting  me 
across  the  river.  Unluckily  for  me,  there  was 
a  five-cent  toll  for  foot-passengers  on  the  bridge, 
and  I  had  only  one  cent  left. 

It  was  the  middle  of  an  intensely  hot  after- 
noon. I  was  too  tired  to  begin  an  immediate 
search  for  work,  and  so  I  took  a  seat  on  a  bench 
in  the  shade  of  the  public  square,  near  to  a  foun- 
tain which  played  with  a  delicious  soucd  of  cool- 
ness under  the  trees.  The  park  walks  converged 
toward  the  fountain  as  a  centre,  and  thither  came 
the  people  who  wished  to  rest  in  the  shade  or 
whose  errands  carried  them  through  the  public 
square.  Presently  a  sharer  of  my  bench  got  up 


FROM   CHICAGO  TO   DENVER  323 

and  walked  on,  leaving  behind  him  a  copy  of  a 
local  paper,  which  I  eagerly  seized  upon  and 
read  and  re-read  until  I  became  conscious  of  the 
dimming  light  of  early  evening.  I  was  stiff 
and  sore  with  the  long,  hot,  dusty  march,  and 
uncomfortable  at  failing  to  get  the  letters  upon 
which  I  had  long  counted,  and  I  lacked  utterly 
the  energy  to  surmount  even  so  slight  a  diffi- 
culty. But  with  the  cool  of  the  early  evening 
came  the  natural  hunger  bred  of  a  day's  march, 
and  the  necessity  of  providing  for  that  and  a 
shelter  for  the  night. 

One  of  the  streets  of  the  city  through  which 
I  had  walked  to  the  central  square  was  named 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  from  one  point  on  its  pave- 
ment I  could  see  through  the  open  windows  of 
a  cheap  hotel  the  tables  in  the  dining-room  spread 
for  supper.  There  were  screens  at  the  windows 
and  light  cotton  curtains,  and  the  table-linen  ap- 
peared clean  and  the  shaded  depth  of  the  room 
looked  to  me,  from  the  blistering  pavement,  like 
the  subdued,  fragrant  coolness  of  real  luxury. 

I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  hotel  and  asked  for 
work,  but  there  was  none  for  me.  I  found  the 
way  to  the  stables  and  applied  there,  but  an  old 
man  with  a  long  nose  and  a  white,  patriarchal 
beard  told  me  that  they  were  in  no  need  of  more 
men.  This  was  very  different  from  my  experi- 


324  THE   WORKERS 

ence  in  the  country,  where  everyone  was  in  need 
of  men  and  one  had  not  to  ask  for  employment 
but  was  everywhere  urged  to  accept  it,  and  I  be- 
gan to  wonder  whether  for  the  sake  of  work  I 
should  be  forced  out  again  to  the  farms. 

Near  this  "  Fifth  Avenue  "  hotel  I  had  no- 
ticed a  livery-stable  which  fronted  on  one  street 
and  extended  through  to  another  bordering  the 
public  square.  I  went  there  next,  and  found  its 
keeper  seated  comfortably  in  the  wide,  open 
doorway.  Taciturn  and  non-committal  at  first, 
he  confessed  eventually  to  his  needing  a  man  in 
addition  to  the  two  already  at  work  in  the  stable, 
and,  after  some  questioning,  he  told  me  to  come 
back  at  nine  o'clock  that  evening  and  receive  his 
decision. 

I  was  supperless  and  without  the  means  of 
securing  anything  to  eat,  and  there  remained  an 
hour  and  a  half  before  nine  o'clock.  In  this  pre- 
dicament I  had  the  good  fortune  to  chance  upon 
a  delightful  public  library  on  the  second  floor 
of  a  building  overlooking  the  square.  It  was 
like  the  library  at  Wilkesbarre  in  its  charming 
accessibility;  and,  without  a  trace  of  the  feeling 
of  weariness  or  hunger  left,  I  was  reading  raven- 
ously, when,  by  some  happy  chance,  I  caught 
sight  of  a  clock  that  was  almost  on  the  stroke  of 
nine.  "With  thanks,  which  were  exceedingly 


FROM  CHICAGO  TO  DENVER  325 

short  and  abrupt,  I  returned  the  books  to  an 
attendant  in  the  library  and  then  bolted  for  Mr. 
Holden's  livery-stable.  He  was  standing  in  the 
door  when  I  came  up,  and,  without  preliminary 
remarks, 

"  I  will  take  you  on,"  he  said,  and  then  he 
added,  almost  without  a  pause, 

"  I  will  give  you  twenty  dollars  a  month  and 
arrange  for  your  board  at  the  hotel  [indicating 
the  "  Fifth  Avenue  "  one] ,  or  thirty  dollars  a 
month  and  you  manage  for  your  own  keep.  You 
will  sleep  in  the  loft  over  the  harness-room." 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  I  accepted  the 
first  offer,  and  wishing  us  good-night  Mr.  Holden 
left  the  stable  in  charge  of  Ed,  one  of  the  other 
hired  men,  and  me. 

It  was  too  late  to  get  anything  to  eat  at  the 
hotel,  and  so  I  sat  up  with  Ed  and  helped  unhitch 
the  horses  and  put  up  the  traps  as  they  came  in. 
The  last  horse  was  housed  by  eleven  o'clock.  I 
then  found  that  with  the  aid  of  a  hose  a  capital 
bath  was  possible  in  the  carriage-washing  section 
of  the  stable,  and  then  I  went  to  bed  on  a  cot 
in  the  well-ventilated  loft,  very  content  in  the 
knowledge  that  I  had  found  a  good  place  and 
should  have  a  breakfast  in  the  morning. 

Ed  called  me  at  five  o'clock  as  he  was  going 
below,  and  when  I  followed  him  he  assigned  me 


826  THE   WORKERS 

the  two  rows  of  stalls  next  to  his  own,  whichi 
contained  twelve  horses  and  which  were  to  be 
my  first  care.  All  these  stalls  had  to  be  cleaned 
and  the  horses  fed  before  I  was  at  liberty  to  go 
to  breakfast,  and  it  was  with  a  royal  appetite  that 
about  seven  o'clock  I  applied  at  the  hotel.  It 
was  a  very  decent  hostelry,  largely  made  use  of 
by  farmers  apparently.  I  was  at  once  accepted 
as  an  employe  of  Mr.  Holden,  and  served  to  an 
excellent  meal  by  a  trim  little  waitress,  at  one 
of  the  very  tables  which  I  had  looked  in  upon  on 
the  previous  afternoon  with  such  genuine  long- 
ing, and  with  the  feeling  of  its  belonging  to  a 
degree  of  luxury  far  beyond  my  reach. 

The  twelve  horses  which  had  fallen  to  my 
share  had  all  to  be  curried  after  breakfast  and 
got  ready  for  the  day's  orders.  Calls  for  vehicles 
began  to  arrive  in  the  middle  of  the  morning, 
and  they  continued  to  come  at  intervals  through- 
out the  day,  so  that  there  was  much  hitching  and 
unhitching  to  interfere  with  regular  tasks. 

Jake,  the  third  hired  man,  was  boss  in  the  ab- 
sence of  the  owner.  He  had  long  been  in  Mr. 
Holden's  employ,  and  had  a  wife  and  several 
children  in  a  home  of  his  own  somewhere  in  the 
outskirts  of  the  city.  All  the  feeding,  and  clean- 
ing, and  currying,  and  carriage-washing,  fell  to 
Ed  and  me,  while  Jake,  in  addition  to  a  general 


FROM  CHICAGO  TO  DENVER  327 

superintendence,  had  as  his  special  trust  the  care 
of  all  the  harnesses.  He  took  great  pride  in 
them,  and  certainly  kept  them  in  admirable  con- 
dition. Ed  was  chief  carriage-washer  and  next 
in  command  under  Jake,  while  to  me,  when  my 
regular  work  was  done,  fell  the  odd  jobs  of  keep- 
ing the  carriages  oiled,  and  watering  the  horses 
at  the  proper  hours,  and  lending  a  hand  at  the 
unloading  of  the  hay  and  feed  as  they  came  in 
— of  holding  myself  in  readiness,  in  short,  to  do 
anything  that  anyone  in  the  stable  asked  of  me. 
A  very  good  position  it  was,  as  I  very  soon  found. 
I  had  no  great  difficulty  in  learning  the  various 
tasks,  and  in  a  stable  which,  even  in  the  fierce 
heat  of  August,  was  always  comfortable,  and  at 
forms  of  work  which  were  always  interesting, 
and  with  every  cost  of  living  provided  for,  I  was 
clearing  five  dollars  a  week. 

By  no  means  were  the  demands  of  our  work 
continuous.  Nearly  every  afternoon  we  had  an 
hour  or  two  or  even  three  together,  when  there 
was  little  to  be  done.  I  found  a  book-shop  across 
the  way  from  the  stable,  where  second-hand 
books  could  be  rented  at  the  rate  of  six  cents  a 
week  and  the  books  exchanged  as  often  as  you 
pleased. 

Then  in  the  evenings,  when  we  all  had  supped 
in  turn,  and  the  stalls  had  been  made  ready  for 


328  THE  WORKERS 

the  night,  and  the  traps  sent  out  in  answer  to  the 
evening  trade,  Jake  and  Ed  and  I  used  to  sit  out 
in  front,  within  easy  hearing  of  the  telephone- 
bell,  with  our  chairs  tilted  against  the  stable-wall 
and  our  feet  caught  by  the  heels  on  the  chair- 
rounds,  and  there  we  talked  by  the  hour  to- 
gether, until  Jake  went  home  and  left  Ed  and 
me  to  care  for  the  outstanding  horses  and  traps, 
and  lock  up  the  stable  for  the  night. 

I  was  at  a  disadvantage  in  these  conversations. 
Jake  and  Ed  were  Yankees,  both  of  them  shrewd, 
hard  -  headed,  steady  fellows.  Jake  was  the 
father  of  a  family,  and  Ed  an  unmarried  man  of 
three-and-thirty,  who  was  working  with  all  his 
might  to  pay  off  the  mortgage  on  his  father's 
farm  back  in  Illinois.  Both  of  them  had  had 
some  district-school  training,  but  nothing  be- 
yond, and  while  they  had  a  perfectly  intelligent 
knowledge  of  affairs  which  concerned  them  as 
men  and  as  citizens,  their  farther  intellectual 
horizon  was  limited. 

One  evening  as  we  sat  under  the  stars  the  talk 
turned  upon  astronomy,  and  Ed  began  to  com- 
ment disparagingly  upon  the  claims  of  astrono- 
mers of  an  ability  to  weigh  the  heavenly  bodies, 
and  to  measure  their  distances  from  one  another 
and  from  the  earth.  Jake  heartily  agreed  with 
him,  and  insisted  that  not  until  a  line  could  be 


FROM   CHICAGO  TO   DENVER  329 

carried  from  one  to  another,  and  each  star 
weighed  accurately  in  a  scale,  would  he  put  any 
confidence  in  these  pretended  results.  My  at- 
tempt to  point  out  that  there  were  methods  of 
determining  weight  and  distance  other  than  the 
very  direct  ones  which  they  insisted  upon,  was 
very  damaging  to  my  reputation  for  intelligence, 
and  was  set  down  as  of  a  piece  with  the  general 
ignorance  which  I  had  shown  in  the  work  of  a 
livery-stable.  And  when,  later  in  the  discussion, 
I  stood  out  for  the  validity  of  the  doctrine  of  the 
conservation  of  energy,  against  Ed's  immediate 
demonstration  of  its  falsity  in  the  heaps  of  refuse 
which  he  pointed  out  were  thrown  every  day 
from  our  stable  alone,  and  which  must  to  some 
degree  effect  a  variation  in  the  totality  of  matter 
— I  found  that  my  position  in  the  crew  was 
threatened  with  unpleasantness. 

But  in  reality  both  Jake  and  Ed  were  exceed- 
ingly friendly  to  me.  They  were  at  pains  from 
the  first  to  teach  me  my  work,  and  to  give  me  a 
hint  now  and  again,  which  counted  for  much,  in 
the  matter  of  getting  the  job  well  in  hand.  Soon 
the  days  began  to  go  by  with  astonishing  rapid- 
ity. I  had  told  Mr.  Holden  that  I  should  not  be 
with  him  very  long,  and  at  the  end  of  two  weeks 
I  left  the  livery-stable  with  ten  dollars  and  one 
cent  in  my  pocket,  minus  the  twelve  cents  which 


330  THE  WORKERS 

were  due  for  book-hire,  and  which  I  felt  had 
been  well  invested. 

At  Omaha  I  stopped  for  several  days.  Like 
Minneapolis  and  Denver,  of  the  Western  towns 
which  I  have  seen,  it  is  a  splendid  type  of  the 
American  city  of  a  generation's  growth,  where 
almost  miraculous  progress  has  been  made  in 
actual  material  development,  and  where  the 
higher  demands  of  civilization  are  responded  to 
with  an  energy  and  enthusiasm  which  are  in- 
spiring, and  which  are  prophetic  of  splendid  re- 
sults. 

Then  out  I  walked  one  perfect  afternoon  upon 
the  level  plains  of  Nebraska,  with  wild  sunflow- 
ers in  prolific  bloom  and  square  miles  of  Indian- 
corn  fields  standing  lusty  and  stark  to  the  very 
horizon  with  puffs  of  belated  pollen  powdering 
the  warm  red  light,  and  the  corn-silk  turning 
black  at  the  ends,  and  the  long,  drooping,  cane- 
like  blades  beginning  to  show  the  ripe  yellow 
of  the  autumn. 

The  mere  writing  down  the  bare  fact  of  the 
journey  stirs  in  one's  blood  again  the  joy  of  that 
free  life.  The  boundlessness  of  the  world  and 
your  boundless  enjoyment  of  it,  the  multiplicity 
of  abundant  life  and  your  blood-kinship  with  it 
all,  some  goal  on  the  distant  horizon  and  your 
"  spirit  leaping  within  you  to  be  gone  before  you 


PEOM   CHICAGO  TO   DENVER  331 

then!  "  There  is  scarcely  a  recollection  of  all 
the  tramp  through  Illinois  and  Minnesota  and 
Iowa  and  eastern  Nebraska  which  is  without  the 
charm  of  a  free,  wandering  life  through  a  rich, 
beautiful  country.  What  I  saw  of  the  wealth 
of  a  fertile  region  in  central  Illinois  I  found 
again  enhanced  in  beauty  and  productiveness  in 
southern  Minnesota,  and,  varying  in  outward 
configuration  but  scarcely  less  attractive  or  fruit- 
ful, across  the  face  of  Iowa,  losing  only  its  vari- 
ety as  it  modulates  in  Nebraska  to  the  plains 
which  slope  upward  gently  for  five  hundred 
miles  to  the  Rockies. 

My  mind  throngs  with  the  pictures  of  splen- 
did cultivation,  of  leagues  on  leagues  of  farms 
which  were  had  for  the  taking  or  were  purchased 
from  the  Government  at  a  dollar  and  a  quarter 
an  acre,  and  where  I  saw  countless  comfortable 
homes  and  fields  white  to  the  harvest,  with  no 
demand  so  strong  as  the  one  for  laborers. 

It  was  not  wealth  in  the  sense  of  opulence,  but 
it  was  the  plenty  which  is  beyond  the  fear  of 
want  that  marked  the  character  of  that  broad 
domain.  The  poor  were  there,  and  the  suffering 
and  the  deeply  discontented,  and  there  were  hard 
conditions  of  life  and  very  sordid  ones,  but  never 
the  hopelessness  which  gives  to  town-bred  desti- 
tution its  quality  of  despair.  In  the  gradual  der 


832  THE   WORKERS 

velopment  of  actual  resources  about  you  appeared 
to  be  the  remedies  of  most  of  the  obvious  ills. 

"  This  is  a  rich  region,"  said  a  handsome  young 
farmer  who  had  offered  me  a  lift  one  blistering 
hot  day  in  Iowa — "  this  is  a  rich  region,  and  it 
is  more  than  rich,  it  is  reliable.  We  never  know 
a  total  failure  of  crops  here;  we  can  always  make 
a  living.  This  country,  for  hundreds  of  miles 
around,  is  a  garden,  and  we  live  in  the  heart  of 
it."  And  he  was  one  of  the  discontented.  I  only 
regret  that  I  have  not  space  here  for  his  inter- 
esting account  of  the  tyranny  of  capital  under 
which,  from  his  point  of  view,  the  farmers  live 
and  work,  and  the  imperative  need  of  monetary 
reform  as  a  means  of  bringing  about  their  eman- 
cipation. 

It  was  the  thing  which  I  had  heard  many 
times  from  many  farmers  at  the  West,  only 
never  presented  with  quite  equal  cogency  before. 
The  opposite  views  had  been  represented  to  me, 
and  there  was  often  a  singular  alternation  of 
presentation  within  the  course  of  a  day  or  two, 
and  I  had  come  to  recognize  a  comical  uniform- 
ity between  condition  and  views. 

If  I  chanced  upon  a  farmer  who  had  no  par- 
ticular quarrel  with  the  existing  order  of  things, 
who  was  conservative  and  cautious  and  sceptical 
of  the  efficacy  of  change,  I  was  quite  sure  to  find 


FROM   CHICAGO   TO  DENVER  333 

that  he  was  an  admirable  farmer,  thrifty  and  en- 
ergetic and  industrious,  with  a  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  his  business  down  to  a  frugal  care  of  mi- 
nor details.  But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  I  fell  in 
with  a  farmer  who  was  clamorous  for  radical 
economic  change,  on  the  ground  that  he  and  his 
class  were  being  ruined  by  the  injustices  of  ex- 
isting economic  conditions,  I  soon  began  to  feel 
a  suspicion,  which  all  my  observation  deepened 
into  a  conviction,  thr,t  the  man  of  this  type  was 
fundamentally  a  poor  farmer;  his  buildings  and 
fences  were  sure  to  be  out  of  repair,  and  his  stock 
showed  signs  of  suffering  for  want  of  proper  care, 
and  the  weeds  grew  thick  in  his  corn,  and  his 
machines  were  left  unhoused  and  suffered  more 
from  rust  than  ever  they  did  from  wear. 

This  would  be  absurd  as  a  generalization  with 
any  claim  to  wide  applicability,  as  would  be  any 
generalization  based  upon  my  casual  experiment- 
ing; it  was  the  comical  uniformity  of  my  expe- 
rience in  this  case  as  in  some  others  that  im- 
pressed me. 

The  real  difficulties  of  the  situation  for  many 
of  the  "Western  farmers  one  could  not  fail  to  see. 
Apart  from  material  misfortune  and  apart  from 
sickness  and  ill-luck,  there  is  the  inexorableness 
of  conditions  which  seem  at  times  to  hold  them 
to  a  life  of  servitude  with  no  escape  from  unprof- 


334  THE   WORKERS 

itable  drudgery,  and  from  the  carking  care  which 
burdens  men  who  are  hopelessly  in  the  clutch  of 
debt. 

I  grew  impatient  at  times  with  the  tone  of 
Philistine  patronage  and  superiority  adopted  by 
the  sturdier  farmers.  Theirs  was  the  harder 
work  no  doubt  and  theirs  the  shrewder  careful- 
ness and  the  more  provident  handling  of  their 
instruments,  but  even  hard-won  success  is  some- 
times so  strangely  blind  to  the  obligations  which 
arise  from  the  fact  that  subjective  difficulties  are 
as  real  and  are  often  far  more  difficult  of  master- 
ing than  those  which  are  objective.  Often  it 
appears  at  its  worst  as,  with  utter  disregard  of 
the  duty  of  helpfulness,  it  chants  its  heartless 
creed  in  the  terms  of  the  fore-ordination  which 
lightly  dooms  all  the  non-elect  of  high  efficiency 
to  the  deep  damnation  of  beggarly  dependence 
or  of  endless  failure  in  the  struggle  of  life. 

Two  hundred  miles  west  of  Omaha  the  wages 
earned  at  the  livery-stable  in  Council  Bluffs  were 
exhausted,  and  I  was  obliged  to  look  for  another 
job  with  which  to  replenish  my  store.  I  was  fol- 
lowing the  line  of  the  Union  Pacific  Railway, 
and,  having  spent  my  last  cent  one  mid-day  for 
a  dinner,  I  went  up  to  the  first  section-boss  whom 
I  met  in  the  afternoon's  walk  and  asked  him  for 
a  job.  He  was  a  burly  Irishman  of  massive  fig- 


PROM   CHICAGO  TO  DENVER  335 

ure.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation  he  told  me 
that  he  was  in  no  need  of  a  man,  but  that  Os- 
born, the  boss  of  the  next  westward  section,  the 
thirty-second,  with  head-quarters  at  Buda,  he 
knew  was  looking  for  one. 

About  eight  miles  farther  on  I  came  upon  Os- 
born  and  two  men  at  work  near  the  little  station 
at  Buda,  a  scant  four  miles  east  of  Kearney,  and 
it  was  as  the  Irishman  had  said,  for  instantly, 
upon  my  application,  Osborn  accepted  me  as  a 
section-hand  at  wages  of  a  dollar  and  a  quarter 
a  day  for  ten  hours'  work,  and  offered  me  board 
and  lodgings  at  his  home  for  three  dollars  a  week, 
an  arrangement  with  which  I  instantly  closed. 

For  the  remaining  afternoon  and  until  six 
o'clock  I  lay  resting  in  the  tall  prairie  grass  in 
the  shade  of  the  railway  station,  and  at  seven 
o'clock  on  the  next  morning  I  began  a  term  of 
three  weeks'  service  as  a  section-hand  under  the 
orders  of  Osborn  the  boss,  and  with  a  strapping 
young  Irishman,  "  Cuckoo  "  Sullivan  by  name, 
as  my  partner. 

That  was  the  last  long  stop  before  I  reached 
Denver.  And  now,  as  I  am  about  to  leave  this 
city  for  the  remaining  thousand  miles  of  my  jour- 
ney, I  look  back  over  a  summer  and  autumn 
spent  in  the  country  and  in  towns  and  villages 
of  the  thousand  miles  from  the  seaboard  to  Chi- 


336  THE   WORKERS 

cago,  and  then  a  winter  and  a  spring  within  the 
limits  of  the  foremost  city  of  the  Middle  West, 
and  then  a  summer  in  the  vast  farming  region 
between  Chicago  and  Minneapolis  and  Denver. 
A  thousand  miles  remain,  but  with  what  eager 
anticipation  do  I  look  forward  to  them !  I  shall 
strike  in  among  the  mountains,  and  then  leave 
to  the  natural  development  of  events  the  deter- 
mining of  my  westward  journey.  Whichever 
course  it  takes,  my  way  must  lie  through  the 
frontier,  and  by  force  of  necessity  I  must  come 
into  contact  with  a  life  which  is  something  other 
than  the  monotonous  daily  round  of  work.  There 
will  be  mining  regions  with  the  chances  of  pros- 
pecting, and  the  ranches  with  the  wide  range  of 
their  free  living,  and  Indian  reservations  to  be 
crossed,  and  many  lonely  mountain-trails  to  be 
followed. 

It  was  never  without  interest  and  charm,  this 
summer's  walk  with  its  intervals  of  work,  over  a 
thousand  miles  of  the  mid-continent.  It  varied 
in  beauty  with  every  day's  march,  and  even  the 
dead  level  of  the  Nebraska  prairies  as  the  Indian 
corn-fields  grew  thinner  and  faded  completely 
into  boundless  plains  of  sage-brush,  where  the 
alkali  lay  white  on  the  glittering  soil,  and  the 
bleaching  skeletons  of  cattle  joined  their  mute 
appeal  to  the  cloudless  sky  for  water  to  quench 


FROM   CHICAGO   TO  DENVEE  337 

a  burning  thirst — even  here  was  an  attraction 
and  an  interest  of  its  own. 

Days  ago  I  caught  sight  of  the  mountains  ris- 
ing from  out  the  level  plain,  and,  through  the 
haze  of  distance  and  above  the  mists  which 
shrouded  their  gaunt  sides,  I  saw  their  "  silent 
pinnacles  of  aged  snow  "  appearing  clear  against 
the  blue  of  high  heaven.  Now,  as  I  have  drawn, 
nearer  in  this  marvellous  air,  a  hundred  miles 
of  the  range  stand  out  in  glorious  vividness  of 
color  and  of  every  detail  of  configuration,  and 
my  heart  leaps  again  to  the  joy  of  their  compan- 
ionship, and  I  realize  with  a  tingling  of  blood 
that  the  best  of  the  journey,  in  any  sense  of  ad- 
venture, lies  before  me  in  the  life  which  they 
hold  upon  their  slopes  and  fertile  valleys,  and  in 
the  gloomy  depths  of  their  vast  canons. 


CHAPTER  VIZI 

FROM  DENVEB  TO  THE  PACIFIC 

PHCENIX,  ARIZONA, 
January  3,  1893. 

JOUENEYING  by  no  pre-arranged  plan,  but  di- 
recting my  course  according  to  the  promptings 
of  chance  circumstances,  I  have  wandered  far 
from  a  direct  westward  line  from  Denver  to  the 
sea,  but  I  have  come  by  a  way  that  has  furnished 
in  experience  all  that  I  could  have  hoped. 

The  very  first  step  from  Denver  carried  me  out 
of  a  due  westward  course.  In  the  vague,  ill-de- 
fined manner  of  a  tenderfoot,  I  knew  that  Cripple 
Creek  was  a  relatively  new  mining  camp,  and 
that  it  lay  somewhere  beyond  Pike's  Peak,  and 
I  light-heartedly  dreamed  that,  being  a  new 
camp,  it  was  just  the  place  for  a  new-comer;  so, 
late  in  September,  I  set  out  from  Denver  with 
Cripple  Creek  in  view. 

For  seventy  miles  or  more  I  went  south,  the 

earlier  part  of  the  walk  leading  me  through  the 

sandy  tract  which  begins  abruptly  at  the  very 

edge  of  the  fresh  green  lawns  that  mark  the  end 

338 


FROM   DENVER  TO  THE  PACIFIC        339 

of  irrigation  in  the  city.  The  road  which  first  I 
followed  gradually  faded  out  on  the  open  plain. 
Then  I  cut  diagonally  across  country  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  foot-hills. 

Near  to  the  city  as  it  was  this  bit  of  country, 
after  weeks  of  drought,  was  like  a  veritable 
desert.  Underfoot  was  the  hot  alkali  dust,  where 
grew  the  short  plain-grass  that  lay  whitened  in 
tufts  of  crisping  curls,  as  though  dead  beyond  all 
reviving.  Thick  on  every  side  was  a  growth  of 
stunted  cactus,  well  in  keeping  with  the  character 
of  the  plain,  while  the  deeper  green  of  the  long, 
sharp  Spanish  needles  was  a  sad  mockery  of  fer- 
tility. Along  occasional  ravines,  washed  deep 
by  sudden,  rain-fed  streams  whose  beds  now  lay 
stony  and  parched  and  baked  under  the  hot  sun, 
were  here  and  there  clusters  of  scrub  oaks,  small 
in  growth  but  with  their  wiry  branches  spreading 
a  luxuriance  of  small  oval  leaves  which  supplied 
the  welcome  of  a  shadow  in  a  desert  land.  At 
intervals  among  the  dry,  tufted  grass  small  sand- 
heaps  appeared,  and  above  them  the  heads  of 
prairie  dogs,  piping  shrill  warning  of  suspicious 
approach,  or  darting  in  swift  flight  from  one  bur- 
row to  another. 

For  some  miles  I  walked  through  such  a  re- 
gion, growing  momentarily  thirstier  as  the  sun 
beat  down  upon  me  and  I  inhaled  the  alkali  with 


340  THE   WORKERS 

the  sensation  of  having  eaten  soap.  The  only 
sign  of  habitation  that  I  saw  was  a  shanty,  a  mere 
shell  of  boards  tacked  upon  a  frame  and  standing 
ten  feet  square,  perhaps,  and  seven  feet  high. 
The  hill  on  which  it  stood  sloped  to  a  deep  ravine, 
and  past  the  shanty-door  wound  a  smaller  water- 
course, where  a  line  of  scrub-oaks  grew,  suggest- 
ing the  presence  of  a  spring.  But  the  bed  was 
dry  and  yawned  in  thirsty  cracks,  and  no  source 
of  water  could  I  find,  although  the  shanty  was 
plainly  inhabited;  for  the  door  was  heavily  pad- 
locked, and  a  half -starved  dog,  with  a  broken  leg, 
limped  from  his  kennel  among  some  old  soap- 
boxes and  barked  a  feeble  protest  against  my 
approach,  and  a  few  fowls  were  squatting 
in  the  dust  in  the  shade  of  the  scrub-oaks,  or 
scratching  for  food  in  the  dry  grass  near  the 
shanty. 

Two  or  three  miles  farther  on  I  came  out  upon 
a  highway,  which  follows  the  general  direction 
of  the  Santa  Fe  and  the  Rio  Grande  railways,  as 
they  parallel  each  other  to  the  south.  Here  was 
a  very  different  tale  to  tell.  There  were  many 
ranches  along  the  route  with  abundant  supplies 
of  water  from  artesian  wells,  apparently,  whose 
streams  were  playing  ceaselessly  over  gardens  and 
at  the  roots  of  thrifty  fruit-trees.  I  passed 
through  a  number  of  typical  Western  village^ 


FROM   DENVER  TO  THE  PACIFIC         341 

on  the  march,  and  once  through  an  encampment 
of  a  regiment  of  regulars,  whose  officers  were  at 
mess  and  many  of  the  men  lying  at  full  length 
on  the  ground  with  their  legs  protruding  from 
under  the  slight  shelter  tents,  while  foraging  ex- 
peditions could  be  seen  bargaining  among  their 
out-houses  with  the  neighboring  ranchmen,  with 
all  the  womenkind  and  children  in  interested  at- 
tendance. 

The  road  was  gradually  drawing  nearer  to  the 
foot-hills.  Instead  of  a  hundred  miles  of  un- 
broken mountain-range,  from  Long's  to  Pike's 
Peak,  that  seemed  to  rise  abruptly  from  the  plain 
only  an  hour's  walk  away,  I  began  to  be  aware 
of  the  magnificent  distances  so  strangely  dis- 
guised in  that  clear,  rarefied  air,  and  to  appreciate 
altitudes  by  comparison  with  lesser  heights.  The 
view  lost  in  extent,  only  to  gain  in  the  grander 
outlines  of  splendid  detail.  And  with  the  nearer 
view  there  grew  clear  the  marvellous  coloring  in 
the  exposed  strata  and  the  fantastic  shapes  which 
mark  the  play  of  erosion  among  the  rocks.  There 
were  deep  saffrons  and  reds  of  every  hue,  from 
a  delicate  flush  to  crimson;  there  were  browns 
and  grays  without  number,  and  a  soft  cream  color 
deepening  to  yellow,  and  now  and  then  a  jut  of 
rock  that  in  certain  lights  appeared  milk-white. 
To  boundless  variety  in  color  was  added  a  weird 


342  THE   WORKERS 

charm  of  form  with  which  the  imagination  could 
play  endlessly.  Sitting  a  rugged  bowlder  with 
the  dainty  poise  of  an  egg  upon  a  conjurer's  fin- 
ger would  appear  a  round-bellied  Hindu  god  in 
solid  stone,  and  near  him,  in  exquisitely  delicate 
tracery,  a  flying  buttress  or  the  tapering  spire  of 
a  cathedral,  while  crowning  some  sheer  height 
in  all  the  glory  of  gorgeous  color  would  rise  the 
grim  towers  and  battlements  of  a  mediaeval  for- 
tress. 

It  was  after  nightfall  on  Saturday  evening 
when  I  entered  Colorado  Springs.  With  the  aid 
of  the  electric  lights  I  soon  gathered  an  impres- 
sion of  a  considerable  town  of  large  hotels  and 
wide,  regular  thoroughfares,  with  the  squares 
built  up,  many  of  them,  in  detached  villas,  after 
the  manner  of  Eastern  summer-resorts  by  the  sea. 
In  the  course  of  a  walk  about  the  town  I  came 
upon  an  empty  prairie  schooner,  which  stood  in 
a  cluster  of  trees  on  the  outskirts  of  an  open 
square,  and  creeping  under  the  sheltering  canopy 
I  slept  there  for  the  night. 

The  Sunday  which  followed  I  remember  chief- 
ly for  its  glorious  sunshine  and  the  view  which 
I  had  in  the  morning  of  Pike's  Peak.  Its  sum- 
mit seemed  to  leap  into  the  sky  as  it  rose  stark 
and  bald  above  the  timber-line,  and  yet  there  was 
infinite  repose  in  its  splendid  height,  standing  out 


FROM   DENVER  TO   THE  PACIFIC         343 

clear  and  majestic  in  the  full  rays  of  the  morning 
sun.  I  remember,  too,  a  service  in  a  well-filled 
church,  and  an  odd  reminder  in  its  worshippers 
of  the  Eastern  seaboard,  and  the  exciting  ex- 
pectancy of  chance  sight  of  some  familiar  face, 
and,  finally,  the  figure  of  a  girl,  who,  entering 
after  the  service  had  begun,  slipped  noiselessly 
into  a  seat  at  my  side  in  a  pew  near  the  door.  A 
wonderful  vision  she  was  of  what  men  mean  when 
they  speak  feelingly  out  here  of  "  God's  coun- 
try," for  you  no  sooner  saw  her  than  there  flashed 
into  sight  the  long  vista  of  the  avenue  as  it  heaves 
to  the  lift  of  Murray  Hill.  You  could  see  her 
there — and  can  see  her  superior  nowhere  under 
heaven — with  the  light  streaming  in  red,  level 
rays  through  the  side  streets  on  a  late  afternoon 
in  the  cold,  crisp  air  of  autumn,  with  the  tan  of 
a  summer  on  the  New  England  coast  upon  her, 
and  her  exquisite  figure  instinct  with  the  vitality 
which  comes  of  yachting  and  hard  riding,  her 
frock  and  jacket  fitting  her  like  a  glove,  and  her 
clear,  frank  eyes  looking  you  straight  between 
your  own  and  making  you  feel  in  her  presence 
what  a  clean,  wholesome,  manly  thing  is  life! 
She  little  dreamed,  as  she  cordially  shared  her 
prayer-book  with  me,  how  deeply  indebted  to  her 
I  was  for  being  so  fine  a  type  of  the  finest  and 
handsomest  women  in  the  world,  and  how  much 


344  THE   WORKERS 

I  owed  her  for  so  fair  a  vision  before  I  launched 
into  the  mining  regions  of  the  frontier. 

Monday  dawned  as  bright  as  Sunday  had  been, 
and  by  eight  o'clock  I  reached  Manitou  and  was 
ready  to  begin  the  ascent  of  Pike's  Peak.  There 
was  a  wide  choice  of  route,  for  there  was  a  road, 
and  a  well-beaten  trail,  and  the  bed  of  the  cog 
railway.  I  took  to  the  railway  as  the  most  un- 
mistakable and  very  likely  the  directest  course. 

With  infinite  engineering  skill  the  first  ascent 
of  the  cog-road  is  cut  as  a  ledge  along  the  side  of 
a  deep  gorge  or  canon,  down  which  rushes  a 
mountain  stream  of  considerable  volume.  Fol- 
lowing the  great  turns  of  the  canon  the  road  as- 
scends  in  the  shadow  of  huge  rocks,  that  tower 
straight  above  it  or  slope  in  a  more  gradual  rise, 
furnishing  place  for  the  cabin  of  a  miner  or  of 
some  lover  of  camp  life.  The  mountain-sides  are 
dark  with  evergreen,  which  seems  to  grow  deep- 
rooted  in  the  rock,  clinging  at  times  to  a  bare, 
protruding  ledge  with  naked  roots  thrust  deep 
into  crevices  where  soil  and  moisture  are  found. 
The  quaking  aspen  shares  this  bare  subsistence 
with  the  pine,  and,  green  with  the  rich  green  of 
late  summer  at  the  mountain-base,  it  marked  all 
the  stages  of  the  autumn  in  the  ascent,  until  at 
the  timber-line  I  found  its  leaves  turned  yellow 
and  fast  falling  to  the  ground. 


FROM  DENVER  TO  THE  PACIFIC        345 

About  two  miles  below  Windy  Point  I  had 
the  good  luck  to  overtake  a  miner,  who  had  been 
spending  Sunday  with  his  family  near  Colorado 
Springs  and  was  now  on  his  way  back  to  work  in 
Cripple  Creek.  He  was  not  at  all  encouraging 
as  to  the  prospect  of  my  finding  work  in  the  camp, 
but  before  we  parted  at  Windy  Point  he  gave  me 
careful  directions  about  the  way,  and  I  began  to 
feel,  in  his  calling  me  "  partner  "  and  in  his  talk 
of  "  claims  "  and  "  gulches  "  and  "  blazed  trails," 
my  first  intimation  of  nearing  the  mining  regions 
of  the  Rockies. 

We  separated  where  the  cog-road  sweeps 
around  the  southern  side  of  the  mountain,  only 
because  I  was  bent  on  reaching  the  summit  before 
going  on  to  Cripple  Creek.  All  the  difficulty  of 
the  ascent  I  found  concentrated  in  the  last  hour 
of  climbing.  It  no  longer  was  a  matter  of  steady 
uphill  work,  but  a  succession  of  short  spurts 
wherein  one  breathed  more  by  accident  than  de- 
sign. You  were  not  tired  in  the  least,  but,  at  an 
altitude  of  some  14,000  feet,  your  breath  failed 
completely  in  an  upward  walk  of  fifty  yards,  and 
you  were  obliged  to  stand  still,  panting  until  res- 
piration became  normal  again. 

Exactly  at  twelve  o'clock  I  reached  the  sum- 
mit, where  I  found  a  piercing  cold  wind  blowing 
and  small  drifts  of  snow  lying  in  crevices  among 


846  THE   WORKERS 

the  rocks  on  the  northern  slope ;  in  an  air  as  clear 
as  crystal  my  eye  swept  boundless  mountain- 
ranges  to  the  north  and  west  and  south  and  a 
boundless  plain  below,  where,  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  lay  Colorado  Springs,  a  few,  dim 
squares  formed  by  the  intersection  of  faint  par- 
allel lines  at  right  angles  to  one  another.  Above 
the  rushing  of  the  wind  among  the  grim,  naked 
crags  which  form*the  summit,  a  wind,  which  at 
that  solemn  height  suggests  the  sweep  of  awful 
interstellar  spaces,  the  only  sound  I  heard  was 
the  voice  of  an  attendant  in  a  stone  building  near 
by  as  he  sang,  again  and  again,  the  chorus  of 
"  Ta,  ra,  ra,  ra,  boom,  de  ay !  " 

I  remained  at  the  summit  as  long  as  I  dared, 
held  by  the  fascination  of  the  view;  then  I  re- 
turned to  Windy  Point  and  went  down  the  south 
face  of  the  mountain  and  across  a  beautiful  grass- 
grown  level  to  the  brink  of  another  descent, 
where,  according  to  my  miner  friend  of  the  morn- 
ing, I  should  find  a  blazed  trail.  I  found  instead 
the  sheer  side  of  a  canon.  I  followed  the  brink 
of  the  precipice  for  some  distance,  and  coming 
at  last  upon  a  less  abrupt  point,  I  plunged  down 
and  made  my  way  over  shelving  rock  and  fallen 
trees  until  I  eventually  chanced  upon  the  trail. 
This  I  followed  to  the  deep  bed  of  the  canon, 
where  I  saw  some  claims  staked  out  and  lost  my 


FROM   DENVER  TO   THE   PACIFIC         347 

way  in  a  tangle  of  cattle  trails.  It  was  growing 
dark,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  the  journey's  end, 
but  I  knew  the  general  direction  of  Cripple 
Creek,  and  the  moon  was  at  its  first  quarter. 

Even  the  cattle-trails  failed  at  last,  and  in  the 
dark  forest  I  was  soon  lunging  on  over  bowlders 
and  rotting  trees  and  the  debris  of  a  mountain 
wood  in  the  direction  of  the  camp,  hoping,  mean- 
while, that  I  should  not  be  obliged  to  spend  the 
night  in  the  open,  for  at  that  altitude  in  late  Sep- 
tember it  was  turning  "  wondrous  cold." 

Down  one  ridge  and  up  another  I  forged  ahead 
through  the  tangled  undergrowth  of  the  forest, 
and  at  last,  from  the  top  of  a  rock  which  cleared 
the  trees  about  it,  I  caught  the  glimmer  of  a  light 
through  the  window  of  a  cabin  a  mile  or  two 
away. 

It  was  an  ore-crushing  camp  I  found;  I  was 
made  most  cordially  welcome,  and  given  a  bed 
on  a  pile  of  blankets  in  a  tent  where  slept  the 
half  dozen  men  of  the  crew.  They  were  a  hearty, 
healthy  lot  of  young  farmers  to  all  appearances, 
and  I  gathered  that  they  had  come  up  from  Kan- 
sas at  the  time  of  the  "  boom  "  at  Cripple  Creek. 

A  walk  of  only  four  or  five  miles  carried  me 
into  the  camp  after  breakfast  next  morning.  The 
first  view  that  I  had  of  it  was  very  striking,  I 
thought,  as  I  looked  down  upon  it  from  a  sudden 


348  THE   WORKERS 

turn  in  the  road.  The  settlement  lay  in  the  south- 
eastern bend  of  a  basin  whose  bottom  was  as  flat 
as  the  prairie  and  well  turfed.  The  hills  rose 
quite  bare  for  some  distance  about  it,  and  their 
sides  looked  oddly,  as  though  heavy  artillery  had 
been  playing  upon  them,  for  they  were  peppered 
with  holes  made  by  prospectors,  with  loose  earth 
and  stones  lying  about  them. 

Straggling  lines  of  wooden  buildings  followed 
roughly  the  rude  course  of  a  long,  dusty  street, 
which  ran  southward  to  the  mouth  of  a  gulch  and 
then  turned  abruptly  west  until  it  lost  itself  on 
the  level.  Some  of  these  buildings  were  log- 
cabins,  of  much  solidity,  and  others  were  trim, 
substantial  frame  houses,  neatly  painted;  but  for 
the  most  part  they  were  crude,  unpainted  shan- 
ties, and  there  were  many  tents  dotting  the  hill- 
sides, and  a  few  lines  of  light  structures  which 
marked  the  outlines  of  prospective  streets  branch- 
ing from  the  main  thoroughfare. 

The  camp  itself  wore  an  air  of  desertion,  which 
was  only  confirmed  when  I  entered  it.  There 
were  few  persons  in  the  streets,  and  some  of  the 
houses  were  abandoned.  The  picture  formed  a 
very  welcome  contrast  when  I  saw  a  school-mis- 
tress step  to  the  door  of  a  long  log-cabin,  with 
grass  growing  thick  on  its  roof,  and  ring  a  bell 
to  summon  a  troop  of  little  children,  who  came 


FROM   DENVER  TO.  THE   PACIFIC         349 

running  and  shouting  from  unexpected  quarters, 
dispelling  at  once  the  loneliness  and  quiet  of  the 
place. 

It  was  but  nine  in  the  morning,  and  I  had  the 
full  day  in  which  to  look  for  work.  There  were 
very  few  mines  in  actual  operation  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, I  found,  but  I  visited  all  of  them,  ask- 
ing for  any  form  of  unskilled  labor. 

I  was  struck  at  once  with  the  wide  difference 
in  bearing  out  here,  as  compared  with  the  East 
and  Middle  West,  on  the  part  of  employers  to- 
ward workingmen.  It  did  not  take  long  to  dis- 
cover that  there  were  scores,  possibly  hundreds, 
about  the  camp  who  were  out  of  work,  and  yet 
the  manner  of  men  to  whom  I  applied  for  em- 
ployment was  most  uniformly  courteous,  and 
courteous  in  the  best  possible  way.  Invariably  I 
found  myself  treated  as  a  fellow-man,  and  that 
was  a  wonderful  salve  to  one's  self-respect. 
There  was  no  effort  at  politeness,  but  simply  an 
instinctive  recognition  of  fellowship. 

"  Why,  no,  I  ain't  got  nothing  that  I  can  give 
you  to  do  now,  partner,"  a  boss  would  say.  "  You 

see  it's  like  this ,"  and  then  would  follow  a 

friendly  talk  on  the  general  situation,  as  one  man 
might  naturally  explain  a  case  to  another. 

It  was  all  easily  intelligible.  The  camp  had 
enjoyed  its  "  boom  "  during  the  last  autumn  and 


350  THE  WORKERS 

winter,  but  especially  through  the  spring.  There 
had  been  the  usual  rush  of  fortune-seekers,  with 
an  uncommon  preponderance,  however,  of  farm- 
ers from  Kansas  and  Nebraska.  Some  silver  had 
been  found,  but  much  more  gold-bearing  quartz 
and  a  little  placer  deposit.  Evidently  Cripple 
Creek  is  to  become  a  gold-producing  centre,  but 
the  ore  discovered  so  far  is  of  rather  a  low  grade. 
Very  little  of  it  can  be  worked  at  a  profit  so  long 
as  it  must  meet  the  great  cost  of  transportation 
by  mule  train  to  the  railway  at  Canon  City,  more 
than  thirty  miles  away.  There  are  two  railways 
now  making  for  the  camp;  so  soon  as  they  have 
entered  the  region  and  reduced  greatly  the  pres- 
ent cost  of  transportation  and  other  costs  attached 
to  mining  there,  many  claims  will  rise  instantly 
to  the  position  of  paying  properties  which  cannot 
now  be  worked  to  any  profit  whatever.  The 
miners  were  all  sanguine  of  rich  results  when 
once  this  period  of  waiting  has  been  tided  over. 

But  in  the  meantime  it  was  "  hard  scrapping  " 
for  a  living.  There  were  golden  prospects,  but 
very  little  immediate  work,  and  the  best  of  pros- 
pects makes  but  an  indifferent  diet.  After  a  long 
and  tiring  round  of  mines,  I  went  at  last,  very 
hungry,  in  the  direction  of  an  ore-crushing  outfit, 
which  stood  in  the  bottom  of  the  basin  near  the 
camp.  Nothing  in  the  way  of  work  was  to  be  had 


FROM   DENVER  TO  THE  PACIFIC         351 

there,  but  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  see  an  old 
prospector  test  some  placer  diggings,  deftly  wash- 
ing out  a  panful  of  soil,  and  exhibit  the  few  tiny 
specks  of  gold  deposit  at  the  last. 

Turning  back  to  the  camp  I  began  a  round 
of  the  lodging-  and  eatmg-houses  and  shops,  in 
the  hope  that  some  opening  might  be  found.  But 
there  was  as  little  demand  for  help  there  as  I  had 
found  about  the  mines,  with  the  exception  of 
one  cheap  chop-house,  where  a  notice  was  ex- 
posed advertising  for  a  dish-washer.  I  applied 
for  the  place  with  high  hope  of  getting  it,  but 
the  buxom,  stolid  woman  who  was  in  charge,  met 
every  advance  on  my  part  with  an  unvarying 
"  No  "  and  with  nothing  more,  and,  worsted  at 
last,  I  was  obliged  to  withdraw. 

It  was  by  mere  accident  that  I  drifted  in  the 
evening  to  Squaw's  Gulch,  and  fell  in  there  with 
an  old  prospector  who  was  working  out  the  as- 
sessment on  his  claim,  and  who  offered  me  food 
and  shelter  in  his  cabin  and  a  certain  share  in  the 
mine  if  I  would  help  at  the  work. 

When,  finally,  I  left  Cripple  Creek,  Creede 
was  my  next  objective  point.  Down  the  moun- 
tain road  in  the  direction  of  Canon  City  I  went, 
but  I  did  not  get  so  far  as  that  on  the  first  day's 
march,  for  I  was  late  in  leaving  Cripple  Creek 
and  darkness  overtook  me  when  some  fifteen 


862  THE   WORKERS 

miles  of  the  way  yet  remained.  For  some  time 
I  had  been  following  an  excellent  road  which 
wound  through  a  charming  valley  in  its  easy  de- 
scent to  the  plain.  The  valley  narrowed  pres- 
ently, leaving  but  a  few  hundred  yards  between 
the  steep  sides  of  mountains,  which  hemmed  it  in. 
A  stream  was  flowing  swiftly  along  its  rocky  bed, 
and  the  evening  winds  were  blowing  with  the 
sound  of  a  low  murmur  among  the  pines  as  I 
pressed  on  in  the  darkness  through  the  ankle- 
deep  dust  of  the  road. 

It  was  not  a  light  that  first  attracted  me,  but 
the  black  bulk  of  a  cabin  that  seemed  to  rise 
suddenly  from  the  ground  on  my  right.  Soon 
I  saw  that  it  was  occupied,  and,  going  near,  I 
fc-uud  a  side  door  wide  open,  with  lamp-light 
streaming  from  it  into  the  night.  For  a  mo- 
ment I  stood  unnoticed  in  the  doorway,  and 
could  see  at  a  glance  the  heavy  wooden  table 
and  the  chairs  and  the  large,  old-fashioned  cook- 
ing-stove, and  the  prints  tacked  to  the  walls,  and 
the  cooking  utensils  hanging  behind  the  stove, 
which  made  up  the  furniture.  The  floor  was  of 
well-planed  boards,  which  had  been  scrubbed 
white,  and  the  whole  room  partook  of  the  at- 
mosphere of  cool,  wholesome  cleanliness,  charac- 
teristic of  the  best  New  England  kitchens.  And 
the  figure  that  stood  ironing  at  the  table  in  the 


353 

centre  of  the  room  was  in  perfect  keeping  with 
her  surroundings.  A  tall  woman,  evidently  past 
fifty,  of  strong,  muscular  frame,  and  with  a  face 
of  high  intelligence,  wearing  in  repose  an  ex- 
pression of  sweetness  and  of  lady-like  serenity, 
which  gives  to  the  wrinkled  faces  of  some  women 
so  high-bred  and  distinctive  a  grace. 

I  knocked  on  the  open  door,  and  she  looked 
up  in  no  wise  disturbed  at  sight  of  a  stranger 
there.  I  explained  my  purpose  and  asked 
whether  there  was  anything  that  I  could  do  in 
payment  of  shelter  and  a  breakfast.  She  drew 
out  a  chair  from  the  wall  and  invited  me  to  be 
seated,  saying  that  we  should  consider  that  mat- 
ter in  the  morning.  For  some  time  I  sat  talking 
with  her,  and  while  she  ironed  she  conversed  in 
an  easy,  natural  manner,  bred  of  the  free  life  out 
here,  which  has  in  it  all  the  charm  of  the  di- 
rectness and  simplicity  of  a  true  woman  of  the 
world. 

Presently  she  invited  me  to  meet  her  husband, 
and,  leading  the  way,  she  took  me  to  an  inner 
room,  where,  in  a  rocking-chair  before  a  wood 
fire  on  a  large,  open  hearth,  sat  a  man  of  about 
her  own  age.  He  looked  his  character  perfectly, 
for  he  was  a  hard-handed  frontiersman  of  rugged, 
sinewy  frame,  with  hair  and  beard  unkempt,  ap- 
parently, but  you  saw  at  once  that  he  was  fault- 


354  THE   WORKERS 


y  clean,  as  was  the  beautifully  whitewashed 
room  in  which  he  sat,  with  its  muslin  ceiling  sag- 
ging here  and  there.  He  did  not  rise  to  meet  us, 
only  turned  a  little  in  his  chair  and  allowed  his 
paper  to  rest  on  his  knees  as,  for  a  moment,  he 
fixed  upon  me  his  dark  eyes  full  of  the  unfathom- 
able mystery  and  sadness  of  life.  I  marked  in 
him  at  once  the  same  well-bred  repose  and  self- 
possession  which  I  had  noticed  in  his  wife. 

We  talked  at  first  of  indifferent  matters  until 
I,  keen  with  interest  in  the  shelves  of  books  which 
I  saw  about  the  walls,  and  other  shelves  on  which 
fragments  of  many  kinds  of  rock  were  lying  in 
order  and  all  labelled,  ventured  an  inquiry  as  to 
whether  he  was  interested  in  geology. 

With  shame  do  I  confess  that  there  was  in  my 
witless  head  at  the  moment  a  patronizing,  super- 
cilious curiosity  at  the  fact  that  the  rough  old 
backwoodsman  who  sat  before  me  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves should  have  surrounded  himself  with  ob- 
jects about  which  he  could  know  so  little.  I  got 
it  full  between  the  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  quietly,  in  answer  to  my  in- 
quiry, "  I  have  been  a  good  deal  interested  in  the 
science  for  the  last  twenty-five  years,  for  my 
ranch  turned  out  to  be  remarkably  rich  in  pale- 
ontological  remains  and  in  geological  material, 
particularly  of  the  cretaceous  period." 


FROM   DENVER  TO  THE  PACIFIC         365 

And  then  with  natural  straightforward  ease  he 
began  to  go  into  details,  describing  to  me  his  first 
chance  discoveries  on  the  ranch  when,  soon  after 
the  civil  war,  he  had  moved  out  from  New  Eng- 
land and  pre-empted  a  homestead  here.  It  was 
a  fascinating  narrative  most  modestly  told,  of  one 
discovery  leading  to  another,  of  interest  awak- 
ened in  an  unknown  field,  of  a  book  secured  here 
and  there,  of  a  widening  intellectual  horizon,  and 
of  an  awakening  to  undreamed-of  worlds  of  in- 
finite interest  and  wonder,  of  communication 
with  men  of  science,  of  personal  acquaintance 
with  some  of  them,  and  finally  of  a  recent  visit 
to  a  great  Eastern  university  where  the  best  of 
his  specimens  are  all  mounted  in  the  Geological 
Museum.  Now  and  then  he  would  reach  down 
a  fragment  of  rock  bearing  the  impress  of  some 
paleontologic  form  and  would  illustrate  in  con- 
crete detail.  In  a  single  sentence  he  would  be 
far  beyond  my  shallow  depth  of  meagre,  book- 
learned  science,  but  he  generously  paid  me  the 
compliment  of  taking  for  granted  that  I  knew, 
and  he  could  hardly  have  had  a  more  interested 
listener. 

In  the  morning  he  was  driving  to  Canon  City 
and  he  invited  me  to  go  with  him.  On  the  way 
he  talked  of  science,  geology  this  time,  and  he 
amply  illustrated  what  he  said  by  means  of  the 


356  THE   WORKERS 

vast  exposed  strata  which  rose  tier  on  tier  in  the 
sheer  sides  of  the  canon  through  which  we  drove 
to  the  plain. 

From  Canon  City  I  crossed  the  Arkansas  and 
struck  up  into  the  mountains  in  the  direction  of 
Green  Mountain  Valley.  The  weather  had  fa- 
vored me  marvellously.  Not  since  I  had  left  my 
job  as  a  navvy  at  Buda  on  the  Union  Pacific  Rail- 
way had  I  been  hampered  by  a  drop  of  rain. 
Down  through  Colorado  and  among  the  moun- 
tains so  far,  I  had  enjoyed  an  unbroken  succes- 
sion of  most  delightful  autumn  days.  But  the 
clouds  began  to  gather  now  as  I  made  my  way 
through  Green  Mountain  Valley.  I  well  remem- 
ber the  cold,  threatening  morning  of  October 
18th,  when  I  walked  through  the  all  but  deserted 
mining  camp  of  Silver  Cliff.  That  night  I  spent 
with  a  ranchman  in  the  heart  of  the  rich  valley; 
when  I  set  out  in  the  morning  snow  had  begun  to 
fall,  and  I  realized,  with  some  concern,  that  I 
still  had  a  considerable  range  to  cross  and  several 
days'  march  to  the  mining  camp  of  Creede. 

I  did  not  get  very  far  on  that  memorable  19th. 
For  an  hour  or  two  I  had  no  difficulty  in  keeping 
the  road,  but  the  snow  had  thickened  to  a  blind- 
ing storm  by  then,  and  the  wind  was  fast  rising 
to  a  gale.  Anything  like  that  snow-fall  I  have 
never  seen.  A  whole  landscape  was  blotted  out 


FROM   DENVER  TO   THE  PACIFIC         357 

as  in  a  moment,  and  the  road  which  just  now 
was  a  clearly  defined  way  through  the  valley  be- 
came almost  instantly  indistinguishable  in  the 
general  sweep  of  flaky  whiteness,  over  which 
fresh  snow  was  falling  so  fast  that  you  could  not 
see  ten  yards  ahead. 

I  found  out  afterward  that  I  had  been  very 
near  to  losing  my  way  on  a  plain  where  I  might 
have  wandered  in  endless  circles,  for  the  falling 
snow  instantly  covered  one's  tracks  and  left  no 
trace  of  the  way  one  had  come.  As  it  was,  see- 
ing that  it  was  impossible  to  make  headway  in 
such  a  storm,  I  struck  out  for  shelter,  and  before 
I  realized  my  actual  danger  I  ran  up  against  a 
ranchman's  cabin. 

It  was  a  very  small  affair,  with  a  lean-to  for 
a  kitchen,  but  a  dark  little  German  woman  with 
a  soft  musical  voice,  who  opened  the  door,  bade 
me  a  most  cordial  welcome;  and  as  she  placed  a 
chair  for  me  before  the  fire,  she  assured  me,  again 
and  again,  of  the  anxiety  that  she  should  feel  if 
one  of  her  boys  were  caught  out  in  such  a  storm, 
and  of  her  gratitude  to  anyone  who  might  shelter 
him.  I  began  to  understand  that  I  was  coming 
in  for  a  good  deal  of  vicarious  attention,  for  she 
took  my  wet  coat  and  boots  to  dry  them  in  the 
kitchen  and  insisted  upon  my  drinking  some  hot 
tea. 


358  THE  WORKERS 

It  was  a  very  cosy  nest  into  which  I  had  fallen. 
The  ranchman  himself  was  a  mild-mannered 
German,  with  a  blonde  beard  and  dreamy  eyes, 
and  an  air  of  abstraction,  who  looked  up  to  his 
wife  in  all  things,  for  she  was  vastly  his  superior. 
Two  boys  were  at  home,  magnificent  young  fel- 
lows of  about  fifteen  or  sixteen,  handsome,  clear- 
eyed,  ruddy-faced  lads,  with  the  carriage  of  men 
who  are  most  at  ease  in  the  saddle.  And  visiting 
her  prospective  in-law  relations,  was  the  fiancee 
of  the  oldest  son,  who  is  a  merchant,  I  think,  in 
West  Cliff.  It  was  worth  far  more  than  all  the 
risks  of  the  storm  to  see  her.  She  was  a  Swedish 
girl  in  the  very  bloom  of  youth,  and  her  light 
hair  had  in  it  the  living  fire  of  red  gold.  It  was 
brushed  straight  back  and  done  up  behind  her 
head  in  a  great  mass  of  interweaving  coils  in 
which  the  light  played  superbly.  Some  shorter 
hairs  had  worked  loose,  and  these  fell  in  almost 
invisible  curling  threads  of  gold  about  her  white 
forehead.  Her  cheeks  were  of  translucent  pink, 
and  her  rich  red  lips  were  as  delicately  formed 
as  in  the  Psyche  of  Praxiteles. 

The  child  was  perfectly  unaware  of  her  beauty. 
In  her  wide,  blue  eyes  there  was  not  a  suggestion 
of  self-consciousness.  And  the  family  about  her 
seemed  not  to  consider  it  either;  perhaps  they  all 
regarded  it,  as  the  poor  instinctively  accept  much 


FROM    DENVER  TO  THE  PACIFIC         359 

in  life,  as  belonging  to  the  natural  order  and  not 
to  be  counted  in  an  individual  sense. 

We  had  a  jolly  time  that  day  playing  games 
and  telling  stories  far  into  the  evening.  It  was 
perfectly  clear  next  morning,  with  a  warm  sun 
fast  melting  the  deep  snow.  I  could  not  venture 
on,  however,  for  the  way  was  too  obstructed,  and 
in  another  day  spent  in  the  cabin  I  got  on  quite 
intimate  terms  with  the  family,  especially  with 
the  ranchman's  wife,  who  told  me  much  of  their 
life  and  many  of  her  troubles.  They  were  very 
serious,  though  her  life  was  not  without  its  com- 
pensations. It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  care-lines 
deepen  in  her  sensitive  face  and  an  infinite  per- 
plexity cloud  her  eyes  as  she  talked  to  me  of  her 
sorrows. 

"  My  man  is  a  good  husband,"  she  would  say, 
"  but  he's  not  a  good  farmer.  I  don't  know 
what's  to  become  of  us.  He  gets  deeper  and 
deeper  into  debt.  Sometimes  he  works  hard  and 
manages  well  and  I  think  that  we  are  going  to 
get  on ;  and  then  in  the  middle  of  it  the  prospect- 
ing fever  takes  him,  and  he  leaves  everything 
and  goes  off  into  the  mountains  and  spends  every 
cent  that  he  can  raise,  looking  for  silver. 

"  You  see  a  fortune-teller  told  him  once  that 
he'd  '  find  his  fortune  in  stone,'  and  ever  since 
then  he's  been  crazy  to  prospect  and  he's  squan- 


360  THE   WORKERS 

dered  everything  off  there  in  the  mountains. 
The  boys  have  to  work  too  hard  and  they  don't 
get  the  proper  schooling,  and  I  don't  know  what's 
to  become  of  us. 

"  But  there's  my  son  John  that  keeps  store  in 
"West  Cliff  " — and  it  was  beautiful  to  see  her  face 
light  up — "  no  woman  ever  had  a  better  son  than 
him.  He's  been  like  a  father  to  the  family.  I 
don't  know  what  we'd  ever  have  done  without 
him,  for  he's  been  the  greatest  help  to  us  in  all 
our  troubles." 

They  urged  me  to  stay  longer  on  Friday  morn- 
ing, but  the  day  was  perfectly  clear  and  patches 
of  dry  ground  had  begun  to  appear  through  the 
snow,  and  so  I  set  out  early,  hoping  to  cover  be- 
fore night  most  of  the  distance  to  the  entrance 
of  Musa  Pass,  which  leads  from  Green  Mountain 
Valley  over  the  Sangre  De  Cristo  Range  to  the 
San  Luis  country. 

I  accomplished  it  comfortably,  and  early  on 
the  next  morning  made  my  way  into  the  pass. 
The  snow  lay  deep  about  the  entrance,  and  it 
deepened  as  I  climbed  the  range,  but  a  party  of 
prospectors  had  just  come  over  the  trail  as  I 
started  in,  and  it  was  a  simple  matter  to  walk  in 
the  path  which  their  burros  had  made  through 
the  snow.  The  prospectors  did  me  another  un- 
conscious service,  for  when  I  met  them  two  of 


FROM   DENVER   TO   THE   PACIFIC         361 

the  five  men  were  suffering  keenly  from  snow 
blindness,  and,  taking  warning,  I  tore  a  strip  from 
a  coarse  cotton  handkerchief  and  bound  it  around 
my  eyes,  in  a  way  that  interfered  very  little  with 
vision  and  yet  acted  as  an  adequate  protection 
from  the  blinding  glare  of  the  sunlight  on  the 
snow. 

That  night  I  reached  a  Mormon's  ranch  well 
in  the  San  Luis  Valley.  It  was  a  matter  of  easy 
marching  after  that,  for  the  snow  was  all  gone 
in  a  day  or  two  and  I  had  only  to  walk  by  way 
of  Alamosa  and  Monte  Vista  and  Del  Norte  to 
the  Wagon  Wheel  Gap  region  and  so  up  to 
Creede. 

I  was  much  disappointed  there  in  not  finding 
work  in  the  mines.  Numbers  of  them  were  in 
operation,  and  there  were  large  gangs  of  men 
employed,  but  there  were  plenty  of  experienced 
hands  about,  and  nothing  whatever  in  the  mines 
for  a  raw  tenderfoot  to  do.  Still  I  had  no  diffi- 
culty, for  at  the  very  first  asking  I  got  work  with 
a  gang  which  was  cutting  a  new  road  down  Bach- 
elor Mountain  from  the  New  York  Chance  Mine 
to  Creede.  And  so,  while  not  a  member  of  a 
mining  crew,  I  was  a  member  of  one  which  con- 
tained many  miners,  and  I  lived  in  the  camp  on 
Bachelor  Mountain  with  scores  of  the  men  from 
the  New  York  Chance  and  the  Amethyst  Mines, 


362  THE   WORKERS 

I  fell  in  eventually  with  a  group  of  truest  Bohe- 
mians, a  mine  superintendent  of  the  best  type,  and 
a  magnificent  chap  who  was  an  engineer  and  sur- 
veyor and  whom  I  liked  best  of  all,  and  a  young 
Harvard-bred  barrister  who  was  on  the  high  road 
to  being  the  District  Attorney,  and  a  newspaper 
editor.  I  cannot  now  recall  how  I  came  to  be  one 
of  their  number,  it  was  done  so  quickly  and  nat- 
urally; but  I  was  suddenly  aware  that  I  had  been 
accepted  as  such,  and  all  that  belonged  to  my 
new-found  friends  was  mine,  and  the  engineer 
and  barrister  and  I  were  sleeping  three  in  a  bed. 

My  pen  rebels  against  the  necessity  which 
spurs  it  to  so  swift  a  pace  over  details  where  it 
longs  to  linger.  For  those  were  hard  but  glorious 
days  on  the  mountain;  there  were  always  new 
and  strange  men  to  be  known  among  the  crews, 
men  whose  emancipation  from  conventionality 
was  complete,  and  whose  personalities  possessed 
a  marvellous  richness.  The  railway  and  statu- 
tory laws  and  honest  women  and  the  ten  com- 
mandments were  there,  so  that  the  camp  "  en- 
joyed the  blessings  of  civilization,"  and  was  wide- 
ly different  from  the  camps  of  earlier  days — 
much  to  the  regret  of  the  older  men  who  knew 
the  earlier  days  and  many  of  the  younger  ones 
who  would  have  liked  to  know  them. 

Already  there  were  apparent  the  phases  of  hu- 


FROM   DENVER  TO   THE   PACIFIC         363 

man  nature  which  seem  by  a  curious  contradic- 
tion to  reveal  themselves  under  the  very  protec- 
tion of  the  vast  improvement  wrought  by  the 
reign  of  "  law  and  order."  But  the  freer,  braver 
elements  of  human  nature  were  present,  too,  and 
were  not  always  beneath  the  surface  of  conven- 
tion. How  it  stirred  one's  better  blood  to  see 
those  free,  strong,  natural  men  face  one  another 
in  the  common  intercourse  of  life  and  meet  the 
exigencies  of  their  work !  And  under  what  spells 
have  I  sat  looking  in  the  eye  some  tawny-bearded 
giant  of  a  prospector  as  he  told  of  thirty  years  or 
more  among  the  mountains  and  in  the  mining 
camps,  of  hardships  endured  and  difficulties  over- 
come and  death  and  danger  faced,  and  of  the  rare 
times  when  he  "  struck  it  rich,"  and  then  the 
lordly,  vicious  days  when  he  "  blew  it  in !  "  How 
much  may  have  been  concocted  for  the  ready  ear 
of  a  tenderfoot  I  did  not  know ;  I  only  knew  that 
it  reeked  with  the  red,  raw  blood  of  life,  and 
whether  true  or  false  it  thrust  roots  deep  into 
grim  and  stanch  realities. 

Hamilton  will  answer  as  the  name  of  the  en- 
gineer. It  was  in  his  office  that  the  little  coterie 
which  I  have  mentioned  would  gather  in  the 
evenings.  There  were  rough  chairs  of  most  com- 
fortable shape,  and  there  was  always  a  roaring  fire 
in  the  stove,  for  the  nights  were  bitter  cold,  and 


3C4  THE   WORKERS 

a  number  of  Hamilton's  drawings  in  crayons  and 
blue  prints  were  tacked  upon  the  walls,  for  be- 
sides being  a  skilful  engineer  he  was  a  splendid 
draughtsman.  His  surveying  instruments  stood 
together  in  a  corner,  and  the  ample  tables  were 
covered  with  unfinished  drawings  and  with  the 
tools  of  his  art. 

Never  was  more  diverting  talk  than  that  which 
ranged  around  the  room  where  we  sat  in  easy  at- 
titudes, with  feet  cocked  up  and  chairs  tilted,  in 
the  soft  light  of  Hamilton's  well-shaded  lamps 
and  in  a  deepening  density  of  tobacco-smoke. 
And  the  talk  was  catholic  in  its  range,  for  the 
editor  was  an  authority  on  local  and  state  and 
national  politics,  and,  as  a  recent  convert  to  "  free 
silver,"  he  could  argue  its  cause  with  all  the  fer- 
vor of  a  novice.  The  barrister  was  a  man  of  lib- 
eral education  who  had  taught  the  classics  and 
loved  them,  and  who  could,  with  real  enthusiasm, 
lead  the  talk  back  from  all  things  modern  to 

"  — those  old  days  which  poets  say  were  golden." 

And  the  mine  superintendent,  for  all  his  shrewd 
and  efficient  practicality — for  he  was  counted 
the  best  superintendent  in  the  camp  who,  in  the 
face  of  the  declining  price  of  silver  and  of  other 
difficulties  as  great,  had  accomplished  marvels 
with  his  mine — was  profoundly  interested  in  Bib- 


FROM   DENVER  TO  THE   PACIFIC         365 

lical  criticism;  he  could  speak  with  the  knowl- 
edge of  a  theologian  on  the  authorship  of  the 
Pentateuch  and  the  question  of  the  inerrancy  of 
Scripture  and  the  authenticity  and  genuineness 
of  the  synoptic  Gospels. 

But  I  liked  most  of  all  to  hear  Hamilton  as  he 
would  sit  left  ankle  crossing  his  right  knee,  his 
right  foot  tip-toe  on  the  floor  balancing  his  tilted 
chair,  and  his  guitar  resting  on  his  lap.  Over  the 
strings  his  great  strong  fingers  would  pass,  strik- 
ing soft  harmonies,  and  his  handsome,  manly  face 
would  respond  to  the  free  play  of  emotion  as  in 
his  rich  voice  and  with  unconscious  vividness  of 
camp  speech  he  would  talk  of  life  and  of  its 
revelations  to  him  throughout  his  varied  his- 
tory. 

"  I  have  had  every  experience  but  that  of 
death,"  he  said  very  quietly  to  me  one  day,  when 
we  had  come  to  know  each  other  well.  As  I 
watched  him  and  saw  his  innate,  thoughtful 
courtesy  to  women,  and  his  strong,  tender-heart- 
ed love  of  little  children,  and  the  frankness  of  his 
life,  and  his  useful  efficiency  as  a  man,  and  his 
devotion  to  the  truth,  and  his  utter  hatred  of  all 
cowardice  and  hypocrisy,  I  began  to  understand 
what  royal  possibilities  there  are  in  the  men  who 
prove  best  fitted  to  survive  in  the  struggle  of  the 
frontier. 


366  THE  WORKERS 

It  was  Hamilton  who  introduced  me  to  Price. 
Price  shall  stand  for  the  name  of  a  prospector  of 
a  sort  that  is  becoming  rare  at  the  West.  The  son 
of  an  officer  in  an  Irish  regiment,  he  was  brought 
to  America  in  his  early  boyhood  and  was  reared 
on  the  Pacific  coast.  But  the  strictures  of  high 
civilization  were  too  much  for  him,  and  long  be- 
fore he  was  out  of  his  teens  he  was  living  the 
rough,  fortuitous  life  of  the  mining  camps  and 
cattle  tracts  of  the  Southwest.  Price  is  about 
forty  now,  and  his  range  of  occupation  includes 
almost  everything  from  a  "  burro  puncher  "  to  a 
member  of  the  Legislature  of  Arizona.  He  seems 
to  know,  moreover,  every  trail  in  the  two  Terri- 
tories and  every  soul  along  them,  to  the  very 
Indians  and  "  greasers  "  of  the  youngest  genera- 
tion, and  he  is  just  the  sort  who  is  looked  upon 
out  here  as  likely  at  any  time  "  to  strike  it  rich." 
So  far,  however,  he  has  not  struck  it  rich;  very 
much  the  reverse.  In  the  spring  he  punched  his 
burros  up  from  Phoenix  to  the  Wagon- Wheel 
Gap  region  and  prospected  there  all  summer,  but 
with  no  luck.  When  Hamilton  introduced  me 
to  him,  his  burros  were  in  hock  and  so  were  his 
blankets  and  his  very  cooking  utensils  and  even 
his  "  gun,"  and  he  was  longing  for  the  means  to 
redeem  them  that  he  might  get  out  of  the  bitter 
cold  of  the  mountains  and  down  into  the  balmy 


FROM  DENVER  TO   THE  PACIFIC        337 

Indian  summer  of  the  Salt  River  Valley  which 
was  "  God's  country  "  to  him. 

No  more  ideal  opportunity  could  have  present- 
ed itself  to  me.  It  was  late  in  November  and  the 
problem  of  going  alone  westward  through  the 
thinly  settled  country  was  a  difficult  one,  and 
here,  as  by  miracle,  was  its  perfect  solution. 
Moreover,  as  it  proved,  Price  was  a  good  fellow 
with  a  truly  Irish  sense  of  humor  and  a  perfect 
adaptability  born  of  long  habit.  And  withal  he 
was  patient  with  my  inexperience.  He  taught 
me  the  "  diamond  hitch,"  and  how  to  make  a  fire 
from  next  to  nothing,  and  tea  out  of  water  that 
was  thick  and  green  on  the  surface,  how  to  cook 
"  spuds  "  and  fry  bacon  and  make  gravy  and 
bake  bread  in  a  saucepan.  He  tried  to  make  a 
burro  puncher  of  me,  but  his  patience  gave  out 
there,  and  he  declared  that  I'd  "  never  be  worth 
my  salt  at  that  until  I  learned  to  swear."  Then 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word  he  would  take  a 
hand  himself  at  this  point,  and  fairly  dancing 
in  a  frenzy  of  rage,  would  rip  the  air  with  un- 
couth, fluent  curses,  and  the  stubborn  beasts 
would  meekly  take  the  ford  or  cease  their  aimless 
wandering  and  quicken  their  pace  along  tke  trail. 

I  had  been  working  for  two  dollars  and  a  half 
a  day,  the  highest  wages  I  had  ever  received;  I 
soon  got  Price's  animals  and  gun  and  camping 


368  THE   WORKERS 

outfit  from  the  pawn-shop,  and,  on  the  morning 
of  November  20th,  we  set  out  together  to  cross 
some  five  or  six  hundred  miles  of  the  frontier 
from  Creede  to  central  Arizona. 

Ours  was  rather  a  typical  prospecting  outfit,  I 
thought,  for  Price  had  an  old,  gaunt  Indian  pony 
which  he  rode,  and  our  blankets  and  cooking 
utensils  and  provisions  were  made  fast  to  pack- 
ing saddles  on  the  backs  of  two  burros,  one  of 
which  was  called  California  and  the  other, 
Beecher.  I  was  free  to  ride,  when  I  chose, 
another  burro,  an  uncommonly  big  one,  which 
Price  called  Sacramento;  but  I  generally  pre- 
ferred to  walk,  for  the  pace  was  slow,  and,  be- 
sides the  three  which  I  have  named,  there  were 
two  little  burros,  California's  foals,  and  punching 
five,  I  soon  found,  was  best  accomplished  on  foot. 

We  camped  that  night  far  up  among  the  head 
waters  of  the  Rio  Grande,  and  next  day  with 
much  difficulty  we  began  the  toilsome  journey 
of  the  Winnemonche  Pass.  It  was  hard  work 
crossing  the  "  divide."  For  many  miles  the  trail 
lay  through  nearly  three  feet  of  snow.  There 
was  no  driving  the  animals  ahead;  we  were 
obliged  to  take  turns  in  breaking  a  way  ourselves, 
and  then  leading  the  animals  through.  Very 
soon  we  were  drenched  with  sweat  and  with  the 
snow  that  melted  in  the  heat  of  our  bodies,  and 


FROM  DENVER  TO  THE  PACIFIC        369 

all  the  while  we  were  assailed  by  mountain  winds 
which  seemed  to  cut  to  the  marrow  in  one's  bones. 
But  we  always  found  a  sheltered  place  in  which 
to  camp,  where  wood  and  water  were  plenty,  and 
where  after  a  good  supper,  we  slept  gloriously, 
huddled  close  together  on  our  bed  of  canvas  and 
gunny  sacks,  our  blankets  drawn  up  snugly  over 
our  heads. 

With  what  a  sense  of  keen  relief  did  we  begin 
the  descent  and  pass  swiftly  into  warmer  regions, 
where  the  snow  became  thinner  and  gradually 
disappeared,  and  the  sun  warmed  us  with  mild 
rays,  and  we  came  upon  a  settler's  cabin  here  and 
there  and  had  speech  once  more  with  our  fellow- 
men! 

Price  had  promised  me  Indian  summer  when 
once  we  should  get  so  far  on  our  way  as  Durango, 
and  most  amply  was  his  promise  fulfilled,  for  we 
passed  through  the  town  on  a  day  when  the  sun 
shone  from  clear,  cloudless  blue,  and  the  horizon 
was  a  sierra  in  sharp  lines,  and  the  twigs  of  dis- 
tant trees  stood  clean-cut  against  the  sky,  and 
the  withering,  dusty  earth  reflected  the  glory  of 
the  sun,  and  the  cool,  buoyant  air  seemed  almost 
vocal  of  a  solemn  ecstasy. 

We  camped  that  night  in  a  wilderness  region 
to  the  south  of  Durango,  where  we  could  see  the 

smoke  rising  from  encampments  of  Ute  Indians, 
24 


370  THE   WORKERS 

many  of  whom  we  met  on  the  next  day's  march 
with  droves  of  fine  Indian  ponies,  which  they 
were  raising  for  the  market.  Our  course  was 
southward  now  across  the  San  Juan  River  and 
through  a  section  of  the  Navajo  reservation  in 
northern  New  Mexico. 

The  trail  led  us  then  through  a  dreary  desert, 
where  at  times  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that 
we  got  fodder  for  our  burros  and  wood  enough 
to  cook  our  meals  and  water  enough  to  drink. 
After  days  of  such  marching  and  camping,  there 
was  immense  delight  in  coming  eventually  to 
some  cedar  grove,  where  living  water  flowed  and 
grass  grew  thick  and  we  could  build  a  huge  camp- 
fire  at  night  of  well-seasoned  cedar  boughs. 

The  only  sign  of  habitation  that  we  saw  for 
days  together  was  an  occasional  trader's  post, 
about  which  we  usually  found  a  considerable 
company  of  Navajos.  Price  could  speak  their 
language,  and  the  young  braves  occasionally 
passed  us  on  the  march.  Now  and  then  one 
joined  us  in  camp,  shared  a  meal  with  us,  and, 
after  a  long  talk  with  Price,  rolled  himself  in  his 
blanket  and  slept  beside  our  fire. 

At  last  we  came  out  upon  the  Santa  Fe  Rail- 
way, not  far  from  Fort  Wingate,  and  followed 
the  line  to  Gallup,  where,  in  a  grove  on  the  hill 
above  the  village,  we  went  into  camp  for  the 


FROM   DENVER  TO  THE  PACIFIC         371 

night.  As  a  matter  of  fact  we  remained  there 
nearly  a  week.  Quite  buried  under  a  soft,  wet 
snow  we  awoke  on  the  first  morning  to  find  our- 
selves lying  in  melting  slush,  and  the  trail  so  ob- 
structed that  we  could  not  get  on.  Then  a  bitter 
cold  set  in,  and,  in  a  region  where  I  imagined 
the  whole  winter  like  a  balmy  spring,  the  ther- 
mometer sank  to  ten  and  twelve  degrees  below 
zero  every  night  until  we  had  nearly  perished 
from  the  cold. 

But  the  wave  passed  over  us  at  last,  and  on 
December  10th  we  set  out  again,  really  none  the 
worse  for  the  touch  of  Arctic  weather.  Follow- 
ing the  line  of  the  Santa  Fe  Railway  we  crossed 
into  Arizona,  and,  from  a  point  due  north  of  it, 
we  cut  down  to  the  Petrified  Forest  and  on  down 
to  a  Mormon  settlement  called  Woodruff  on  the 
Little  Colorado  River.  It  was  two  days'  march 
thence  to  another  Mormon  settlement,  Heber  by 
name,  among  the  Mogollon  Mountains. 

All  this  time  Indian  summer  had  utterly 
failed  us,  and  had  been  succeeded  by  a  season  of 
lowering  days  wherein  light  snow-falls  were  fre- 
quent. Price  hated  snow  as  he  hated  nothing  else 
in  nature.  It  got  upon  his  nerves  and  drove  him 
to  a  species  of  madness.  Frequently  in  the  course 
of  the  journey  from  Gallup  to  Heber  snow  fell 
at  night.  Price  was  usually  the  first  to  stir  in 


372  THE  WOUKERS 

the  morning.  We  had  knowledge  of  a  snow-fall 
in  the  added  weight  upon  us  when  we  woke,  and 
it  was  something  memorable  to  see  Price  throw 
back  the  blankets  and  the  heavy  tarpaulin  which 
were  drawn  over  our  heads,  and  lift  himself  on 
his  elbow  in  the  gray  dawn,  and  gaze  about  with 
fierce  anger  in  his  black  eyes  upon  a  pure,  white, 
flawless  world,  with  soft  snow  clinging  to  every 
twig  in  the  still  morning  air,  and  delicate  crystal 
prisms  beginning  to  form  in  the  warmth  of  the 
coming  sun,  and  hear  him  growl,  in  deep  disgust, 

"This  is  hell!" 

But  Heber  marked  nearly  the  last  stage  of  that 
phase  of  our  journey.  We  spent  Sunday,  the 
18th  December,  there  with  an  old  Mormon  elder 
and  his  son;  worked  for  them  on  Monday  for  our 
keep  and  then  renewed  the  march  on  Tuesday 
morning.  It  was  a  long,  hard  day's  pull  up  the 
northern  side  of  the  mountain  to  the  "  rimrock," 
in  deep  snow  through  a  vast  primeval  forest  of 
spruce  and  pine.  Then  a  wonderful  thing  hap- 
pened, for  we  made  a  sharp  descent  on  the  south 
side  and,  in  the  space  of  a  little  more  than  a  day, 
reached  a  country  where  there  was  no  snow,  and 
the  sun  shone  warm,  and  the  cotton-wood  was  in 
full  bloom  along  the  water-courses,  and  the  cedar 
and  live  oak  stood  green  against  the  winter  brown 
of  the  grass-grown  hills. 


FROM   DENVER  TO   THE   PACIFIC         373 

We  had  Indian  summer  once  more,  and  the 
softest,  balmiest  Indian  summer  has  accompanied 
us  thence  all  the  way  to  Phoenix.  "We  had  hard- 
ships to  endure,  for  the  way  was  long  and  our 
provisions  sometimes  ran  out.  Once  we  lost  our 
way  for  a  time  in  a  maze  of  "  box  canons  "  and 
had  nothing  to  eat  for  twenty-four  hours,  until, 
late  on  Christmas  afternoon,  we  came  out  upon 
the  ranch  of  a  Virginian  settler,  whom  Price 
knew  well,  and  whose  wife  gave  us  a  royal  dinner 
of  "  hog  and  hominy,"  which  I  have  heard 
lightly  spoken  of  as  a  dish,  but  which  I  shall  al- 
ways remember  as  a  most  satisfying  delicacy. 

On  we  went  then  over  the  mountains  to  the 
Tonto  Basin  and  through  the  Reno  Pass  to  the 
Verde  River.  We  were  encamped  there  over 
Sunday  on  January  1st  in  the  former  reservation 
of  the  now  deserted  Fort  McDowell,  and  early  on 
Monday  morning  we  started  for  Phoanix.  By 
a  forced  march  of  thirty  miles  we  entered  the 
city  at  ten  o'clock  the  same  evening  and  had  a 
huge  supper  in  a  Chinese  restaurant ;  then,  while 
our  animals  were  eating  their  fill  of  fresh  alfalfa 
in  a  corral  attached  to  a  livery-stable,  we  slept 
deeply  near  by  on  a  heap  of  hay,  glad  to  have 
reached  the  end  of  our  six  weeks'  march  across 
the  narrowing  frontier. 


374  THE   WORKERS 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL., 
February  1,  1893. 

Not  the  most  interesting  nor  profitable  and 
certainly  not  the  most  adventurous  of  the  many 
miles  which  I  have  walked  in  a  slow  progress 
across  the  continent  has  been  this  last  stage  of 
the  journey  up  through  California.  And  yet  the 
remembrance  of  it  will  always  have  a  place  apart. 
Work  was  plenty,  but  I  made  no  long  stops, 
pressed  on  at  the  rate  of  thirty  miles  a  day,  im- 
pelled by  the  delight  of  walking  in  so  glorious  an 
air  through  the  marvellous  beauty  of  this  Pacific 
slope. 

Fresh  from  the  dusty  plains  I  was  soon  in  the 
midst  of  the  orange-groves  heavily  laden  with 
ripe  fruit  all  about  Colton  and  Kiverside,  where 
the  hills  were  terraced  as  in  the  Riviera  and  the 
sky  was  the  deep,  unfathomable  blue  of  Italy.  It 
was  January,  and  the  first,  fresh  green  of  the  new 
year  was  upon  the  fields  and  had  touched  with 
infinite  delicacy  the  rugged  sides  of  the  moun- 
tains whose  summits  flashed  white  in  places  from 
melting  snow.  The  early  mornings  were  frosty, 
but  midday  warmed  to  a  gentle  glow,  and  the  cool 
of  the  evening  came  with  the  declining  sun. 

Many  a  time,  on  the  plains  or  in  the  mountains, 
in  the  presence  of  some  Mexican  Pueblo  of  adobe 
huts  in  a  strangely  foreign  setting  of  cedar-trees, 


FROM   DENVER  TO  THE   PACIFIC         375 

with  threads  of  water  apparently  flowing  up  hill 
along  the  irrigation  ditches  to  scant  fields  re- 
claimed from  the  desert,  it  had  been  difficult  to 
realize  that  one  was  still  in  America.  Here  again 
was  strongest  suggestion  of  the  foreign,  in  the 
houses  which  survive  from  the  Spanish  period, 
and  especially  the  old  Mission  churches,  where 
dwells  the  dignity  of  age  and  one  can  pass  com- 
pletely into  the  very  atmosphere  of  Spain. 

It  was  on  the  third  day's  march,  I  think, 
from  Los  Angeles  that  I  found  myself  nearing 
San  Buenaventura.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  the  road  ahead  was  an  easy  upward  slope  for 
several  miles.  Just  at  sunset  I  reached  the  sum- 
mit. The  town  of  San  Buenaventura  lay  below 
me,  with  its  long  main  street  curving  through 
rows  of  houses  of  widely  various  kind,  and  the 
Mission  church  standing  on  an  elevation  to  the 
left,  with  its  stucco  walls  bathed  in  sunset  light, 
making  a  strange  contrast  with  the  modern  town. 
And  beyond,  with  the  sun's  red  disc  a  half  circle 
on  the  horizon  line,  lay  the  peaceful  sea,  with  n 
tongue  of  living  flame  across  it  turning  to  black 
coals  the  islands  in  its  wake.  In  a  moment  the 
sun  was  gone,  the  shadow  of  the  evening  was 
upon  the  ocean,  and  over  the  town  had  fallen  the 
transfiguration  light  which  rests  after  sunset  in 
spring-time  upon  Naples. 


370  THE   WORKERS 

Three  thousand  miles  away,  and  a  year  and  a 
half  in  point  of  time  for  me,  was  Long  Island 
Sound.  I  recalled  the  last  glimpse  of  it  as  I 
looked  back  from  Greenfield  Hill  in  the  early 
morning  of  my  start,  and  saw  it  radiant  in  the 
sunshine  of  a  midsummer  day.  And  here  again, 
after  many  months  and  many  leagues  of  land 
journey,  was  the  sea.  Sd\arra\  Sd\arra\  I 
called  aloud,  for  there  was  no  one  near  enough 
to  hear. 

It  was  a  rare  moment,  worth  living  for,  that 
first  unexpected  glimpse  of  the  Pacific.  But 
strangely  enough  the  feeling  which  it  bred  was 
no  harbinger  of  an  eager  willingness  to  end  my 
long  experiment.  Many  a  time  when  work  was 
hard,  and  far  more  ardently  when  there  was  no 
work  and  the  physical  conditions  of  life  seemed 
well-nigh  unendurable,  had  I  looked  with  longing 
to  a  return  to  normal  living.  And  yet,  as  I 
neared  my  journey's  end  I  found  possessing  me  a 
strange  indifference  to  the  idea  of  return.  I  do 
not  attempt  to  analyze  the  feeling,  I  simply  note 
it  as  a  fact ;  but  in  some  degree  I  recognize  in  it 
a  vague  unwillingness  to  have  done  with  a  phase 
of  experience  which  for  me  has  opened  avenues  of 
useful  knowledge.  Among  them  all  there  rises 
clearest  at  this  moment  the  way  of  added  knowl- 
edge of  my  country.  I  may  have  travelled  it  to 


FROM   DENVER  TO  THE   PACIFIC         377 

little  purpose,  but  I  am  conscious  at  least  of  a 
new-born  sense  of  things  which  comes  of  actual 
contact  with  the  soil  and  with  the  primal  struggle 
for  existence  among  men.  One  stands  awestruck 
before  the  vastness  of  our  great  domain  and  its 
quick  redemption  from  the  wilderness.  But  most 
of  all  it  is  contact  with  the  people  which  breeds  in 
one  the  strongest  patriotic  feeling.  Local  condi- 
tions and  the  presence  of  large  numbers  of  yet 
unassimilated  foreign  elements  and  rapid  changes 
in  economic  relations  and  native  weaknesses  and 
vagaries  are  responsible  for  awful  sores  upon  the 
body  politic,  while  the  power  of  aggregated 
wealth  grows  apace,  and  fierce  antagonisms  and 
sectional  differences  arise.  Yet  beneath  the  trou- 
bled surface  of  events  one  comes  to  know  of  the 
great  body  of  a  nation  whose  unity  has  been  pur- 
chased and  made  sure  by  such  a  cost  of  blood  and 
treasure  as  was  never  poured  out  upon  the  altar  of 
a  nation's  life  before,  and  one  sees  a  people  intelli- 
gent, resourceful,  and  hugely  vital,  having  much 
to  learn  and  surely  learning  much,  assimilating 
foreign  elements  with  miraculous  swiftness  and 
growing  stronger  thereby,  living  laborious  days 
wherein  the  rewards  are  to  thrift  and  energy  and 
enterprising  skill,  knowing  no  defeat  and  unac- 
quainted with  the  sense  of  fear,  and  awakening 
year  by  year  to  a  fuller  consciousness  of  national 


378  THE   WORKERS 

life  and  of  the  glorious  mission  of  high  destiny. 
And  with  increasing  knowledge  the  love  of  coun- 
try grows  until  all  thought  of  worth  in  her  is 
merged  and  lost  in  reverence,  and  love  of  her 
becomes  a  summons  to  live  worthy  of  the  name 
and  calling  of  an  American. 


THE   END. 


The  Workers—The  East 

By  WALTER  A.  WYCKOFF 

With  five  full-page  Illustrations.     270  pp. 
12mo,  $1.25 

CONTENTS :-  -The  Adjustment— A  Day-Laborer  at  West 
Point — A  Hotel  Porter — A  Hired  Man  at  an  Asylum — 
A  Farm  Hand — In  a  Logging  Camp. 

In  this  first  volume  of  a  college  man's  narrative  of  his 
two  years'  experience  as  a  day-laborer,  he  deals  entirely 
with  rural  occupations  and  rural  conditions.  He  is  a  day- 
laborer  in  an  uncrowded  market.  He  is  in  close  contact 
with  poverty,  but  not  with  despair.  This  is  a  side  of  the 
labor  question  which  has  been  very  much  neglected  by 
sociologists,  and  it  forms  an  invaluable  introduction  to 
the  more  strenuous  conditions  of  the  second  volume. 
Professor  Wyckoff  writes  with  the  literary  skill  of  a  nov- 
elist, and  the  scrupulous  accuracy  of  a  scientist. 

"  We  doubt  if  any  American  of  the  employer  class  can  read  it 
without  a  feeling  that  the  picture  tells  a  story  of  the  whole  civilization 
in  which  he  lives.  It  is  a  thoroughly  American  book,  and  could  have 
been  written  in  no  other  country."— The  Evening  Post,  New  York. 

"The  volume  is  packed  with  living  faces;  they  are  there  in  the 
air  before  one  in  all  their  delightful  homely  individuality,  their  recog- 
nizable truth  to  human  nature." — The  Weekly  Sun,  London. 

"  This  writer  at  least  brings  our  fellows  of  the  ditch  and  the  woods 
closer  to  our  sympathies."— 7"A^  Dial,  Chicago. 

"  The  project  itself  was  a  brave  one  and  bravely  carried  out." 
— The  Observer,  New  York. 

"  The  valuable  features  of  the  book  are  the  observations  of  Mr. 
Wyckoff  on  the  habits  of  working  men,  their  genuine  democracy  and 
the  sore  temptations  which  are  offered  by  the  saloon  to  men  who 
have  not  formed  the  reading  habit,  and  who  have  no  resources  for 
amusement." — The  Chronicle,  San  Francisco. 

"  We  regard  it  as  much  the  most  enlightening  as  well  as  incom- 
parably the  most  interesting  sociological  work  of  the  year." 

— The  Outlook,  New  York. 

"  It  is  doubtful  if  a  more  interesting  contribution  to  social  science 
than  this  work  of  Professor  Wyckoff 's  has  ever  been  written." 

—The  Interior,  Chicago. 

[OVJtR] 


The  Workers—The  West 

By  WALTER   A.  WYCKOFF 

With  32  full-page  Illustrations  by  W.  R.  Leigh 
12mo,  $1.50 

CONTENTS:— In  the  Army  of  the  Unemployed  (Chicago}— 
A  Factory  Hand— Among  the  Revolutionaries — A  Road- 
Builder  of  the  World's  Fair  Grounds — From  Chicago 
to  Denver — A  Burro  Puncher  on  the  Plains, 

In  this  volume  Mr.  Wyckoff  continues  his  "experi- 
ment in  reality  "  in  the  crowded  labor-market  of  Chicago. 
He  suffers  with  the  lowest  classes  of  the  unemployed, 
and  works  himself  to  a  better  condition  ;  he  studies 
organized  labor  in  a  great  factory  ;  he  analyzes  social 
discontent  with  the  anarchists  ;  and  he  works  his  way  to 
the  Pacific  coast  through  the  great  wheat  farms,  toils  in 
deep  mines,  and  drives  a  burro  across  the  desolate  plains. 
This  closes  one  of  the  most  romantic  narratives  ever 
written  by  a  scholar,  and  one  of  the  most  valuable  to  all 
classes.  It  is  a  contribution  to  the  study  of  humanity. 

"  Nobody  could  read  the  present  instalment  of '  The  Workers '  in 
the  West  without  fee|ing  as  never  before  the  reality  of  the  suffering 
which  night  after  night  and  day  after  day,  faces  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  homeless,  hopeless  working  men  in  the  great  cities  of 
our  'prosperous'  country."—  The  Commons,  Chicago. 

"  The  story  is  Dantesque  in  its  realism,  for  it  is  the  realest  of  the 
Horrible  real  that  it  tells  ot."—The  City  and  State,  Philadelphia. 

"  Mr.  Leigh's  illustrations  could  not  be  improved  ;  they  are  siniply 
perfect.  WeTielieve  the  American  public  is  following  Mr.  Wyckoff 's 
papers  with  intense  interest,  for  they  get  right  down  to  life  as  no 
previous  study  of  this  kind  has  done." 

—  The  Homestead,  Springfield,  Mass. 

"  These  are  unique  sociological  studies,  in  the  nature  of  what  may 
be  called  laboratory  work."—  The  Watchman,  Boston. 

"His  'experiment1  is  a  vitally  interesting  one— a  young  college 
graduate,  he  is  trying  to  see  what  are  the  chances  for  an  honest,  strong 
man  to  earn  his  living."—  The  National  Tribune,  Washington. 

"This  is  so  vividly  written  that  one's  heart  aches  for  the  miserable 
creatures  it  describes."—  The  Irrigation  Age,  Chicago. 

"These  articles  wilj  make  every  reader  think  of  the  working- 
classes  with  new  and  painful  interest."— The  Bulletin,  Pittsburg,  Pa. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  Publishers 

NEW  YORK 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


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